


Uther Pendragon's Guide to Handling Reincarnation

by Itar94



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: And badassary will occur, Crack, Future Fic, Humor, M/M, Magic, Merthur - Freeform, Mpreg, Reincarnation, The one where Uther is reborn as a servant, There are also Merthur kids in the background, Uther is very confused, and he really can't take this shit, and upset with the dragon(s), but there is a plot, seriously there is a plot, the cast is a lot bigger than first suspected
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:55:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itar94/pseuds/Itar94
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Future fic, AU, mpreg, Merthur.]</p><p>One moment, Uther Pendragon is very sure that – yes, he's dead, and the next – well, then he's not that very dead anymore. Camelot is a slightly different place than what he's remembered. Take the sorcerers roaming the city for one. Not to mention the dragons ... And what's all this talk about babies?!</p><p>Or: Uther Pendragon is reincarnated rather abruptly in the early years of Arthur's reign and, once he's got over the shock, he realizes there's yet some work to be done. That is if the stupid dragon (which should be dead since … what? Six, seven years now?) stops bothering him.</p><p>(Work-in-progress.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How to Handle the Arrival (When You Logically, Technically Should be Dead)

**Author's Note:**

> _I started writing this story back when series 4 was still airing and it will probably not contain many series 5 spoilers or references. Plus, this is a future-fic set in an AU time frame. Just a note: while there won't be and has not been any Arthur/Gwen, the story still implies a lot of canon has happened. So Morgana is evil and lurking in the woods somewhere (yes, she will probably play a part in this). At this point, Queen Annis is an ally. Also for people who don't like OCs...I'm afraid there are some of them here, because of the mpreg; but the only OCs with anywhere considerably major roles are the Merthur kids (though they are not in total focus); and possibly original legend characters that I'll borrow in the future (so they're not wholly OCs, are they?)._
> 
>  
> 
> _Warnings for the misuse of capitalized letters (that is all Uther's fault), mpreg and some violence that might occur in future chapters. And also crack. Don't take this fic seriously, seriously._

Uther Pendragon - son of Constantine II, son of Constantine the Great, who in turn was the son of some Man of Greater Importance way way back in the 4th century - a man titled with many things due to the many things he'd accomplished in his life but mainly King of Camelot (or at least,  _previously_  King of Camelot, though it still is a great merit in its own right) is rather certain that he is dead.

Yes, he can clearly recall his son's cries and the knife and the assassin and the wonder of  _Where the hell are the guards!?_  Why were they  _always_  playing dice on duty?

And then: the silence and the blinding light followed by painless nothingness. There was no heartbeat, no breath in his body. In fact, his body ceased to exist and time stopped altogether to matter.  _Finally_  he could have some peace and quiet, away from the craziness that was the daily life in Camelot.

Quite logically, he should be dead. And should have been dead for quite a while now. Yes, quite logically, he  _is_  dead. As in: not alive. Uther Pendragon knows that he died and was buried (he's certain it was a pompous funeral, with spectacular fireworks and ringing trumpets; after all, he  _is_  King of Camelot. It's the least the people can do after all he's done for them!) and so on, and he knows that dead people don't rise again – unless they're resurrected by crazy sorceresses craving revenge of course, but there's no crazy sorceress in sight. In fact there's no sorceress of any kind in sight. (What a relief!)

Thus he should not,  _logically,_ be trapped in a mortal body once again.

But then  **why**  in the name of the heavens is he suddenly – with both breath and heartbeat in his body - standing in a (very familiar) busy corridor somewhere in a large, white (very  _incredibly_  familiar) castle with a (not so familiar) basket full of stinking, dirty laundry in his ( _absolutely_  not familiar) hands?

It is absolutely not logical or sane or normal - or  _anything_  along those terms - for a dead King to be standing in a corridor like this, carrying  _laundry_!

No.

No.

This simply  _cannot be._

"George, are you all right?" a soft, feminine voice intones from his left and Uther doesn't react, because his name certainly isn't George and if this is Heaven or even Hell, it just doesn't seem  _right_. No, and he does not like it  _at all._

Someone lays a hand on his arm. A woman's hand. A servant's hand, sticking out of a rough white and red dress; a livery, a  _servant's_  livery.

Wait. He recognizes that livery. It's the livery of the servants of Camelot. And looking down at himself he realizes, eyes wide, that he too is wearing similar clothes, uncomfortable and itchy and there's still an overloaded, stinking basket of dirty laundry in his hands – pale hands roughened by labour that Uther does not recall ever doing – and oh, _oh god._

Oh god  ** _no_** _!_

Uther's mind reels with horror and he opens his mouth to shout. After all, it is an entirely normal reaction.

"WHAT SORCERY IS THIS!?"

The woman jerks away and stares at him. Another servant stops by, and says (in an entirely too casual tone to be normal): "He must have hit his head again."

"Oh," the woman says, eyes widening. "That makes sense."

"WHERE IN THE BLAZES AM I?!"

"Err, you're … you're in Camelot, George," the maidservant says slowly as if talking to a simpleton or child or maybe even a  _simpleton_  child, and Uther feels his face flush.

"I AM NOT 'GEORGE'! DO NOT ADDRESS ME AS SUCH! IT IS UNCOUTH! I AM UTH—"

"What's this all about?"

The sudden voice is strong, heady. There's  _authority_  in it, and Uther recognizes it immediately without a doubt. In mid-sentence he turns on his heel to come face to face with a tall, strong man, finely muscled; he's clad in the finest clothes one might find, yet they seem rather simple and not too extravagant. A red cloak has been easily slung over his shoulders, and on his chest there's the Pendragon emblem, golden and bright in the sun just like the simple crown resting on the blonde head.

"Oh, I apologize, on behalf of all of us, King Arthur," the servant gasps and bows.

"It's all right, please, do not apologize," Arthur – ARTHUR –  _oh my god he's King now,_ Uther realizes, _my big boy's grown up so much!_  – replies calmly, collected like a King should. "Perhaps he needs to be taken to Gaius for examination?"

Uther's jaws feel a bit loose on their hinges.

 ** _Gaius_**?  _He's still around and I'm not!?_

And also …

_Oh no, oh no, no no **no –** not Gaius!_

Mentally, Uther shivers and starts to get a little, little bit panicked because – Gaius and the old dangerous Eyebrow Glare … No! He will  _not_  let himself be exposed to it again!

Almost violently, he draws away, knuckles white about the stinking basket and eyes large and blood-shot.

"N-no! I'm fine! Absolutely fine!" he croaks, weakly. Not that Uther would ever admit to croaking, weakly or in any other manner. "Sire," he adds with a rasp. Even if Arthur's his son, he's also King of Camelot and proper etiquette has been etched to Uther's spine for decades. Still. It's very, very weird to say it because normally it's the other way around and Arthur is looking at him like at  _simpleton_. And addressing him as such too!

"Are you certain?" Arthur inquires. "I am sure Gaius has time to spare to-"

He is  _not_  a simpleton!

"I SAID I'M FINE!"

His son gives him a pointed look. A look which no well-brought-up Prince should give his father, King or no. Whatever is he looking at him like that for?!

The servant nudges his side. Nudges! The most insolent of actions -

"You're supposed to call him 'sire', George," murmurs the servant.

\- no servant should  _ever_  nudge their former King like that, like he's a mere simple  _commoner_ , like he's one of them -

"George!"

"WHAT DO YOU WANT YOU STUPID HEDGEWITCH?!"

The woman glares at him. It might be because of the 'hedgewitch'. Which honestly might be a grave thing to call someone but Uther refuses to take pity on her even if the guards grab her and drag her to a pyre now because they think she has magic just because he called her a hedgewitch.

"You never said  _'sire'."_

By now, everybody has stopped to watch the commotion and Uther wishes he could sink into the ground and disappear (forever in a very permanent way) right now. Couldn't some assassin appear just now so Uther could throw himself in their way? That'd be good. Or a wayward spear. Or a knight stumbling on his sword. Or ... or ...  _something_.

King Arthur studies him for a moment with a frown, and then turns to address the other servants. "Please, do keep an eye on him for time being. We don't want any more incidents like last week."

"INCIDENTS? What incidents?! I certainly wouldn't be in some kind of 'INCIDENTS'!" Uther protests. Soundly. But he is plainly ignored – _just like that._

"Of course, sire," the servant says and courtesies prettily. "I'll see to it."

"I'M STANDING RIGHT HERE YOU KNOW!"

"Please, George, lower your voice in the presence of your King," hisses servant shooting him a sharp look, and Arthur raise his eyebrow in a cocky, kingly manner that makes Uther choke and his face go red.

"Are you  _sure_  you're all right?"

"…Fine. Yes, fine. Absolutely. Fine. Sire."

King Arthur turns his back on him and addresses one of the other servants. And he doesn't talk to  _her_  like she's a simpleton, no, no. He's all polite and proper and Uther is fighting the violent urge to tear at his hair quite literarily.

"Oh, and while you're at it, could you please send word to the kitchens? I'm planning an outing later today, after the council meeting. A ride to the forest. We'll need a simple meal."

Every onlooker's eyes lit up in delight. "Right away, milord," the nearest servant says. "For four?"

"Naturally."

_Wait – what? What? 'For four'? **What**  is going on here?!_

Arthur nods in confirmation in a very regal manner, even if his crown is ridiculously large (Seriously, does he have no sense of style whatsoever? It's too big for him and it has far too few red crystals. It looks completely  _ludicrous_ ), and then be sweeps off cloak whipping behind him in a Kingly way which fits him excellently. Uther stares after him.

It takes a moment to realize …

…  _Oh my god, that's my son, my big boy, and he's the King and he thinks I'm some idiot **servant**  who has … accidents!_

_..._

**_Oh my god!_ **

Before he can delve deeper and really have a panic attack, someone tugs impatiently at his sleeve. "Come on, you heard him, George. Let's head for the kitchens."

The young woman next to him blushes for some reason Uther absolutely cannot comprehend and leans in to whisper into her friend's ear. "They're so  _sweet_!"

Who the hell are 'they'?!

"I know!" the servant boy replies and the pair are abruptly reduced to giggles and red cheeks and Uther is even more confused, and also annoyed because giggling in corridors is completely unbecoming especially when the servants should have better things to do – like  _working_! And also, Uther is still rather certain that he should be dead.

A sudden thought strikes him.

If Nimueh is behind this ... She might be! Oh god, she might have sent him back just to annoy him, as some stupid means of revenge.

Wait.  _She_  is dead. He met her Up There just five minutes ago and he declared her banned (not that really had the means to but he's not very comfortable about having her hanging around) and she'd simply laughed and conjured up a fireball at him. So, logically, it cannot be she who has resurrected him so abruptly into this strange unfamiliar servant's body. Which means someone else did it and Uther has not a clue who or why other than whoever did it must be stupid and selfish and very evil indeed.

Oh damn it all!

Someone tugs at his sleeve impatiently. "George, are you coming? A picnic needs to be prepared."


	2. How to Handle Being Forced to do Servantly Duties

A number of colourful fruits are lying before him, needing to be chopped. By him.

And that is  _certainly not_  a duty that he, the Great Uther Pendragon, the Man Who Conquered Camelot, will lower himself to do. Ever. Which he informs the head cook (quite loudly) much to her displeasure.

"My," the hefty woman sighs and shakes her head at him. "You complain just as much as Merlin when he first became servant – even more I must say! Not to speak ill of him, of course," she adds quickly, slightly abashed. "He's such a sweet and kind boy. I'm glad King Arthur finally came to his senses and married him."

All of a sudden Uther's throat goes dry like parched paper and the fruits are completely forgotten. Because. The cook just said...

"… M-m **-married?"**

And no, that is  _not_  an awkwardly high-pitched or wavering voice.

The woman stares at him oddly. "You  _don't remember_ , George? Oh, you truly hit your head didn't you! King Arthur and Lord Merlin married four years ago! How could you  _forget_? Maybe you really should have Gaius take a look at your head."

Uther is shocked, horrified, appalled and rather apprehensive on the whole. Which is entirely natural when hearing that your son has married without telling you beforehand and that people wants your head to be examined constantly by a man with a dangerous eyebrow. "No, no," he gasps. "Not Gaius."

And then, suddenly, he realizes  _who_  exactly the kitchen staff is talking about.

_Oh god, no, not that idiot servant with a pea of a brain and the giant ears, that one that kept nearly killing himself all the time because of the tripping over everything and drinking poisoned goblets! No, no, this just **can't**  be happening! My son can't have  **married**  that fool! No, this is utter  **craziness**  –_

"The wedding was splendid!" squeals one of the maidservants, cutting through Uther's thoughts sharply. "Ooh, it was  _so,_  so pretty, I was like, oh my gosh, I've never seen  _anything_  like it! Remember the fireworks and the doves…"

"And then the baby!" agrees another. "You remember when the news came?"

"Yes! That was just, just, awww so cute …!" The rest of the sentence fades into unreal words similar to sounds like  _ashfghhk_ and the girl's facial expression matches it perfectly.

Feeling a bit scared (not that he would ever admit to feeling fear), Uther inches toward the door armed with a very sharp kitchen knife. Perhaps he should cut his way out of the kitchens and flee the castle and the city and then throw himself on the knife to finish it all off.

There are wide happy smiles and murmurs of agreement from everybody in the room, except Uther, who's torn: should he be angry at the laundress' outspokenness talking of the royal family like that? Or maybe he should be shocked at how Arthur's affair with a (former) servant-boy is a well-known secret in Camelot, and that nobody is surprised at the King marrying the boy? Should he complain about so little work being done and there being too much talking nonsense?

And what  _baby_  are they talking about?

Maybe he  _shouldn't_  be shocked or surprised at all. After all, he himself had had  _inklings_  about what was going on when he was (fully and logically) alive that Arthur was oddly close to his servant. Close in manners that simply weren't appropriate, especially between master and servants but there'd been just something about that boy, something Uther couldn't quite put his finger on... And his presence certainly helped to keep Arthur's temper in check and the Prince alive, yes - the boy had always been extremely loyal even if the servant was insolent, had no sense of proper conduct and ended up in the stocks more times than any royal servant in history before him …

Albeit Uther had never dreamed it would come to  _this._

Maybe he should just throw himself out of the nearest window and be done with it – what does it dignity matter in a situation such as this?

Oh, wait, it  **does**  matter. He's Uther Pendragon, former King of Camelot, and he is not the kind of man who ever would cast away all self-esteem and pride and fling himself through a window, even in a moment of uttermost despair. Nay, that will not do. He shall have to deal with this situation in a becoming manner. Like a King would. No throwing himself out of windows or running around screaming like a madman - he doesn't want people to gossip about him calling him crazy!

Furthermore, since he's  _logically_  dead, he might not be able to die again, even if at the moment he's very much alive though he's simultaneously certain that, yes, he is dead.

 _I was sure being dead meant resting in peace_ , Uther reflects sourly.  _Being sent back to Camelot kinds of ruins it._

The cook continues to speak excitedly: "They're such a sweet couple, they match each other perfectly."

"Evidently," one of the male servants says with a secretive grin and leans in, and Uther barely manages to contain an annoyed growl. How can the servants gossip this much and still be effective? If they didn't gossip at all, then they could get twice as much done! How come he hadn't noticed this before?!

"How so?" one of the maids asks curiously.

"Well, I've heard that there's another one on the way …" The man's eyes twinkle.

"Already?" the cook exclaims. "My, they certainly aren't wasting any time. The Princess is barely five months old!"

For a moment there, Uther forgets to breathe and his skin adopts a very pale hue.

The Princess?

 _What_  Princess?

Has his son, already … But, if he's married to the servant-boy …! And what about that  _baby_?!

The servants speak no ill of their King or his consort, no words of infidelity. In fact one of them is giggling behind her hand right now in a manner which Uther would  _never_  do himself nor allow anyone to do (it's completely unbecoming) if he could, and whispering with her friend about how cute the royal couple is and how lucky they are and how  _their_  child is so sweet.

Their child, not the King's and some unknown woman's - but  _theirs_. THEIRS.

Then, if the child is of his son's blood and yet, the servants speak of the very male royal consort as being the bearer of it, that can only mean one thing:  **magic**.

Magic has somehow given his son a child without any sacrifices or grief involved, and Uther doesn't know whether to become overcome with joy, or anger and pure jealousy. Shock starts catching up with him, and faintly he hears the laundress ask if he's all right.

He's about to snap at her, telling her to go back to work, when, finally, the former King of Camelot comes to a startling conclusion:

_Oh my god - I have a **grandchild,** and I might soon have  **more**!_

And so Uther Pendragon, son of Constantine Pendragon, former King of Camelot, promptly passes out. It's all very justified given the circumstances.

"Oh, George," the cook sighs when Uther no longer can hear. "Not this again. Gaius will not be pleased."

 

* * *

He wakes up in some very familiar chambers.

Very, eerily, familiar chambers.

Honestly, they  _never_  change. They look like they did thirty years ago when he'd broken his leg after an unfortunate fall off his horse. (That one hadn't  _his_  fault, naturally. The stable boy was an idiot, and then that mare had distracted his steed – it had nothing to do with his skills as a rider at time, and that a young Igraine had been present in the courtyard at the time had been nothing but coincidence).

Back then a very much younger Gaius had, under the supervision of his master who was court physician of Camelot at the time, patched up the Prince-not-yet-King. Over the years, many things had changed: Gaius had certainly aged but also grown very wise and a trusted ally and Uther had always valued him dearly. But. There are some things he still hasn't gotten used to and never will.

One trait has always been there and even Uther Pendragon, with the most shielded of hearts, may sometimes (read: almost always) find the infamous Eyebrow Glare  _somewhat_  intimidating.

To be trapped by it now gives him a strange feeling of déjà vu.

"This is the third time this week," Gaius states and Uther frowns – he can't recall that, but then again, by the start of this week he was dead;  _certainly_  dead and not this state of not-quite-dead.

"First the fall down the stairs, then the incident in the armoury and now this. Was it the heat in the kitchens?"

How very  _typical_  that he's been trapped in the body of such a stupid, clumsy servant that does not match his intellect at all!

"No," Uther says, scowl deepening when his voice sounds far too bright; not at all as powerful and authoritative it should. He gives it another try, bringing more force into the words. Unfortunately, the pitch continues to be at fault. "Of course not!"

A King does  _not_  pass out because of some stupid heat.

Unfortunately, the words don't have the desired effect. Gaius just looks at him oddly before walking over to the working bench, which is littered with potions and parchments. "Physically there's nothing majorly wrong with you. You hit your arm when you fell but the bruising will fade. You're lucky you didn't break something or even had a concussion. But, George, no more incidents this week,  _please_. I'm busy enough as it is."

Uther finds himself tongue-tied. He can't give orders. He can't tell people off. He can't have them sent to the stocks when they act like idiots. He can't have them sent to the dungeons when they bother him. He can't …

There's so much he  _can't_  do anymore! What  _can_  he do?

For now he settles with crossing his arms and glaring at the physician with all might he can muster. Again, not with the desired effect.

"I must see to Merlin now," Gaius continues, naturally referring to his ward only by name; Uther isn't surprised, even if he frowns since it's not proper even if the physician is the boy's guardian. "I suspect … and so  _soon_. Well. I'm sure the castle is already full of rumours, it's better to confirm them before they run wild."

The words hang in the air and Uther's face flushes knowing exactly what his old friend is implying. He feels slightly lightheaded.

_If I pass out again I'm going to strangle someone with my bare hands!_

 

* * *

Being a servant is positively the toughest task Uther has ever faced – more bothersome than conquering two (or was it three?) of the Eleven Kingdoms to create Camelot.

Who knew the corridors could feel so long, the piles of dirty clothing so endless, and the muddy floors so many and  _enormous_?

Not that he does much of the scrubbing or the carrying or – well,  _anything_  really.

Mostly he busies himself with standing around and watching work progress. Even if it means people tend to glare at him angrily – that's easy to ignore, or he can always glare back and bark at them to keep working as they should. (Though they have trouble listening to him and doing what they're told.)

Hesitant as he is to admit it, having enchanted brooms to keep the corridors dust-free  _is_  a quite good idea, even if he'd yelled a bit when first stumbling onto one, nearly falling flat on his face - the stupid broom had just kept  _sweeping!_  They are certainly  _much_  more effective than the human part of staff.

Even if they're magic.

Oh god, his beloved castle halls are filled with _magic brooms._

Also, there's the chatter which the servants perpetually emit. Oh, by the gods, Uther swears he might soon go mad with this endless prattling and talking and gossiping, left, right and centre - all around and all the time; mostly about nonsense, like if Sir Lamorack is most likely to win that tournament in five weeks (lest Arthur does it, of course) and what is the best cut of a wedding dress, while the rest is about things that the staff shouldn't even have  _heard_. Like what positions does the King prefer when -

No. He'll stop it  _right there._

He can't concentrate with all this noise going on. It's been only an hour or so but already he's getting a steady headache and he tells the servants as much, ordering one of them to go down to Gaius and fetch him some remedy for it.

"Do it yourself," the young man huffs, affronted, and Uther glares at him.

"You will not address me in such a manner! Have you any idea who I really am?!"

The servant looks at him oddly. Uther  _definitely_  won't have it.

"I am Uth-"

Again he's interrupted in the most untimely manner before he can explain that he is no servant, truly, he is the not-quite-dead King Uther Pendragon and he _will not_  take orders from a mere boy who doesn't know his place and certainly not fetch his own medicine like a commoner!

"Oh, hello George!" a vaguely familiar, tanned woman says with a smile. She's slightly oddly dressed: not like the servants, the fabric is far too fine. Yet she couldn't possibly be a noble Lady - he'd have recognized her if that were case, surely! Though there's something about her ..

"There you are, I've looked everywhere for you! We need your help." She bites her lip worriedly. "Richard's still terribly ill, so you need to take his place. He was meant to follow King Arthur and Merlin on their picnic, since Gilli would like the assistance, he's still new and it won't be that much work actually, just be around, you know."

Uther stares at her stupidly. No, not stupidly. Of course not. He simply stares at her waiting for an explanation like any man in his position would.

"…Who?"

"You don't …? Of course you don't remember," the woman shakes her head at him. "He's the King's manservant. King Arthur's, I mean. Please say yes?"

The former King groans. This can't be happening ...

 

* * *

It  _is_  happening.

Just  _how_  the woman managed to persuade him remains somewhat of a mystery. But while he somewhat regrets his decision, the  _truly_  wants to see more of his son – his beloved grown-up son. Even if it means having to pretend being a servant and do a servant's duties such as taking care of the horses.

The picnic makes Uther feel decidedly awkward. Terribly, terribly awkward. It's even worse than the goblin incident when he was forced to stay hidden in his chambers for a week because of the lack of hair – indeed, now he'd very much prefer to go back to Camelot (without a single hair on his head, if need be) and forget about all this craziness or better yet, die in a certain (as in no-coming-back-alive) way and no longer be a (clumsy stupid) servant that even the  _knights_  seem to pity. Honestly, the knights! They should  _not_  act patronizing to the King as if he were an unfortunate child! No, no, Uther does not like it.

There are a number of other things as well that are  _slightly_ bothering him.

First off all, his son (who's grown up  _so much_ all of a sudden – his little boy is no longer a boy!) has no qualms whatsoever about showing affections toward that servant boy – no, he's not a servant any longer, nor a boy. He's not even classed as a commoner anymore!  _(What's the world come to?)_  He's a young man with magic. MAGIC. Yes, capitalized. Because it needs to be.

For the former King might have a slight panic attack and a strong urge to shout " _GUARDS_!" when the very magical young man first appeared in the courtyard, walking by Arthur's side. The very magical young man returns those affections openly, kissing and speaking sweet words and sending those long meaningful gazes that make Uther uncomfortable to witness. The pair banters and talks casually about magic and other such things like dragons, unicorns and alliances with druids (!), as well as courtly and private affairs.

Uther might feel a bit skittish. Just a little. Not that he'd admit it, of course. A King isn't  _skittish_ , no matter the situation. Even if the former servant has magic and there's probably magic in Camelot's daily court business now and there's also a small but prominent bulge on the man's stomach.

Arthur speaks sweetly with the magical, young man - Royal Consort, according to the castle staff who had all stared at Uther oddly when he'd subtly or, well, not so subtly, asked what position "Gaius' troublesome, foolhardy ward" now had - and the magical young –

No.  _Merlin_. It's probably best to refer to him by his name or else Uther's head might burst with this insanity.

The magical –  _Mer_ lin kisses Arthur's cheek as the young King helps him off the horse, while Uther holds the reins. His knuckles are steadily turning sharply white. Nobody pays him any especial heed to notice.

"The glade is just up ahead. It's perfect," Arthur announces proudly. Taking the basket in one hand ( _why is no servant rushing out to help him?_  Uther mentally rages.  _How come are all servants so inefficient when they're needed?!_ ) _,_ the young King takes his son, a blonde three-years-old, by the other, and Merlin follows, picking up a little dark-haired girl and resting her on his hip, smiling broadly.

The three knights – all of which are unknown to Uther – are on their heels, and though they are armed their poses indicate they are relaxed and, somehow, almost a part of this family, not set aside from it.

Uther can't stop staring. Because, oh god, oh god it's  _real_  now, those are his  _grandchildren,_ his flesh and blood; his son is a  _father_  now and he's married to a  _magical_  man.

"But, Arthur, it's so close to the ledge of that cliff. It's not safe for the little ones," Merlin says, wrinkling his nose in displeasure as they walk deeper into the clearing which ends on a cliff facing Camelot. The view from there is utterly magnificent. Uther would've noticed that as well if he wasn't so distracted by trying to keep calm and not run around screaming like a loon at the strange world unfolding around him.

"All right, we'll settle here then. Don't worry, love. The knights will help us keep an eye on them."

"Of course we will," intones one of them, the dark-haired one with the in Uther's opinion ridiculous beard, smiling kindly but without any sort of propriety and Uther wonders wherever from  _this_  knight is, possessing such manners. "Don't worry, they'll be perfectly safe, trust me."

Apart from the royal couple and the knights, there's also a young man in druidic-looking robes, with auburn hair dusting his forehead and ridiculous ears and a kind of far-away gaze. He's … vaguely familiar.

Wait. That's the boy who fought against him in the Open Tournament!

 _He's got a real magic look about him,_  Uther fumes, and then he realizes; O _h crap, I met a sorcerer all those years ago and didn't have them beheaded! Damn it, this truly must be sorcery!_

The man steps up to them and offers, "I can put up some protective wards, so they don't wander off."

This seems to soothe Merlin immensely. "Oh! Thank you, Gilli," he says, a hand absently resting on his stomach. "I totally forgot about that! What would I do without you?"

Arthur chuckles. "Every lifesaver needs a lifesaver of their own it would seem. Oh, look what a treat the cook made!"

He presents a sugary blueberry tart that makes even Uther's mouth water by just looking at it from afar.

"My favourite!" exclaims Merlin eagerly.

Meanwhile Gilli, smiling gently, walks toward the cliff edge and as the sorcererdoes his spellwork accompanied by intricate hand movements and a glowing ring on his finger Uther stares at him aghast, blood cold like ice at the sight.

And Arthur isn't even  _reacting_  at the magic being used to close to them. There isn't a raised eyebrow and he doesn't look over his shoulder or anything. He just. Sits there all calm and is currently leaning in to kiss Merlin again and there's a sorcerer doing magic just like that.

JUST LIKE THAT.

 _What's happened to the glorious Camelot that I've built?_  Uther mentally whines.  _The Purge seems have been entirely for **nothing**!_

They decide to settle in the cooling shadow between two large trees, in a spot where you can still turn and see the white city through the foliage. The sun is sharp and the few clouds above are white and crisp, so the shadow gives a welcome cover from the heat; it is a very fine day. The clearing itself is quite beautiful, with bluebells growing in the fresh green grass, and the wind sings softly in the trees; but Uther takes no note of this. He's too preoccupied with staring at the scene before him. Silently, unnervingly staring.

Arthur spreads a red blanket on the ground and discards his long, fine cloak.  _(Oh, that poor cloak! Cloaks are made to be worn so you look majestic and powerful in them! Have I taught the boy nothing?!)_  Underneath, his clothes are simple – not those of a king.

Were his bearing not so powerful, one could have mistaken him for a commoner; something Uther would've ensured would  _never_  happen to him  _or_  his son. Royalty are made to be recognized!

The King makes a bit of a fuss bringing out pillows for his (magical) husband to sit on, in a truly gentlemanly manner of course, ignoring Merlin rolling his eyes in an exasperated manner even if the warlock eventually takes seat, the little Princess settling contently in his lap. Food is being taken out next: also simple things, fruits and sweet honeyed bread and watered wine, nothing extravagant.

"Now, do not run off, James," Arthur reminds the little Prince firmly. "When you play you must be careful, understand?"

At least he knows  _something_  about  _naming –_ Uther lets out a sigh of relief. He's not sure what he'd done if his grandchild had been named something like Melvin or Harry. (What he doesn't know is that the name was Merlin's idea because the warlock absolutely refused to call his son Gwaine Jr., Leon II or Little Lance, and  _never_  Uther II: the whole magical community of Albion would shudder with horror at the mere thought. But maybe it's best that the former King of Camelot doesn't know about that, for now.)

The boy nods eagerly. "Yes, father. Can I play with Uncle Lance and Uncle Percy now?"

"What about me?" cuts in the third knight with a pout on his face. Yes, a  _pout_ , which is completely undignified for a knight and –

Wait. 'Uncles'?

"Oh, why am I even surprised?" Uther mutters darkly to himself and the horses next to him. The horses don't reply (thankfully). He still has some trouble with fastening the reins to the posts that have been set up for this purpose; it's been many years since he's been forced to do this himself, after all, that's a  _servant's_  work. It's completely justified.

"I want to play with you too but you never like playing hide and seek because you never win," Prince James explains rapidly, as very excited children have a tendency to do. His speech isn't that clear yet; his r:s sounds more like l:s. It's really kind of adorable, except Uther does not acknowledge adorableness even when it comes to his grandchildren - and oh my god, THAT'S HIS LITTLE GRANDCHILD!

Maybe reality hasn't sunk in completely yet.

"So I thought you don't like playing hide and seek with me."

"Of course I want to play hide and seek!" the knight exclaims, then glances hesitantly at the boy's parents who are watching the exchange in amusement. "If you'd allow all three of us, sires?"

"Certainly, Gwaine, just don't stray too far," Arthur assures. "Stay within hearing range."

"And don't do anything I wouldn't do!" adds Merlin firmly, giving the knight a warning look.

The knight, in turn, looks completely innocent like a kicked puppy. "Have you so little faith in your best friend, Your Highness?"

"I think it's better to let that question go unanswered, sir Gwaine."

The knight pouts some more, but the other two knights nod in confirmation. One of them, the tallest one, offers to start counting causing the little Prince to jump up and down in excitement.

Abruptly the Royal Consort and Warlock stops them, waving his arms almost panickedly. "Wait! James, lace your shoes properly!"

Grumbling quietly the boy trots back to the blanket slightly defiantly but settles down to lace his shoes firmly so they won't fall off by his running around. Once done, he stands triumphant and impatient: "Can we go playing now,  _pleease_?"

"Do you have your jacket?" Merlin adds sounding worried and Arthur lays a gentle hand on the warlock's elbow, as if to soothe him.

" _Yes_ , mother."

The young King grins at the child's eagerness. "All right, off you go then."

"Yay! Uncle Percy, hide and seek, now!"

"Right away, sire!" is the obedient response though the man is grinning like a loon. Which is completely undignified for a knight. Knights don't abandon their duties to run about and play hide and seek with four-year-olds!

In the background, Merlin chuckles. "One thing is clear: he's truly a Pendragon, ordering his uncles about like that!"

 

* * *

Somewhere around mid-day, as Uther is very incredibly reluctantly brushing down the horses, he hears it – a voice.

" _Uther."_

He drops the brush with a faint thud in the grass.

What was  **that**? Startled he looks around. No one is turned his way; the knights have just returned looking completely exhausted, as the Royal Consort announces that it's time to eat, and the little Prince runs into his father's arms laughing, eagerly telling about how awesome it is playing with Uncle Leon and that Uncle Gwaine's promised to show him how to fight with a sword later. Their conversation fades into the background however and Uther cannot hear Arthur berating the knight for such a stupid promise because there's no way he's going to let the four year old boy get anywhere close to a sword.

No, there's another voice, much closer, like it was right next to his ear. Or right  _inside_  his ear.

" _Uther, I know you can hear me,"_ it growls. It sounds rather annoyed.

What the-?

Wait. That voice, it's vaguely familiar … as if he's heard it before, long ago, in another life or something poetic like that. Not that Uther would read any poetry, that just isn't him. They are calling him by his real name too, not George! But surely he'd not be acquainted with people talkingin his head.

" _Uther Pendragon, answer me you stupid man!"_

"And how do you propose I do that?!" Uther shouts, causing the gathered family across the clearing to glance at him curiously.

"Are you all right?" asks the one with the large, bared, muscled arms.

What's he supposed to answer? 'Don't mind me, I'm just trying to talk with voices in my head.' No, he'd not let himself be subjected to more weird glances!

"Err. Yes. I was just … thinking out loud."

The knight nods hesitantly. "… All right then. Just … call if there's anything wrong, yeah." He draws back to the royal family and Uther turns his back to them, hoping they don't think he's completely insane (yet).

Gritting his teeth he tries  _projecting_  his thoughts like words, without actually speaking them, and it's rather difficult especially since he wants to yell very loudly at the voice to stop annoying him.

" _What. Do. You. Want?"_

" _So it **is**  you. Oh darn. I'd kind of hoped you'd be dead." _The voice is sounding less than pleased.

Uther barely suppresses a sigh. " _Believe me, so did I. Just – who the bloody hell are you and what are you doing in my head?"_

" _Believe it or now, I'm here to help. Advice you, if you will. It seems you have one more job before your mortal Destiny is over; including helping my Dragonlord and his King. I think you know who they are. You should definitely. I mean, you can't be_ that _out of date … right? Oh, wait ... maybe."_

Dragonlord! That could only mean …

" _You're a **dragon**!"_

" _Yes, I am quite aware of that,"_ the voice states dryly.

Uther is boiling with fury and confusion.  _"You're supposed to be dead! I had your kind eradicated! Arthur had the last one of you slain! I ordered-"_

" _Really," chuckles the voice, "you think that ridding one kingdom, out of all the kingdoms in the world, of my ancient race, would get rid of all dragons in existence? Have you any idea how vast this world is and how broad the sky is? You are truly ignorant, Uther Pendragon."_

Damn that stupid … stupid destiny! This is so wholly unfair. Not only is he trapped in a stupid, clumsy servant's body upon his return to Camelot and the craziness that surely will unfold, no, he's got some destiny to fulfill as well  _and_  he's going to be advised by a dragon.

What has he  _ever_  done to deserve this cruel fate?!

" _I've got to run – well, fly is more of a correct term – before Kilgarrah catches me,"_ says the dragon cheerily. _"He'd be **most**  displeased to find out about this. Something about 'interfering with things you cannot comprehend', he probably still thinks I'm an immature hatchling… But we'll catch up, yes? I'll be back in Camelot shortly. I'm out scouting, you see, and you ought to understand how important that is. Anyhow, remember, don't tell anyone about this, alright? Especially not the druids or other magic folks living in Camelot. They'd be quite upset, given the Purge and everything. Or, most likely, they won't believe you're actually Uther Pendragon and take you to Gaius for an examination of the head."_

Then the voice leaves accompanied by the flutter of wings and then, blessed silence. Uther breathes out heavily through his nose, attempting to compose himself. Must not burst and start yelling. That'd be most undignified. Must not burst.

On top of all, the stupid dragon is also completely  **right**. No one would believe it if George the dimwitted servant who jokes about brass (Uther would  _never_  do such a thing and wouldn't have believed that anyone could be so dull, but the castle staff have remarked at his sudden lack of brass jokes), suddenly claims to be the deceased King of Camelot.

He is not a very big fan of Destiny right now. No, not at all. If he gets his hands on that dragon he'll wring its stupid neck-

"Why don't you join us, George?" Merlin suddenly asks looking up, addressing him like an  _equal_  – which isn't right or maybe it is because Uther was the King of Camelot and now is a servant, and Merlin's gone the other way around, from servant to King and – oh well, does it even matter?

He shakes his head trying to clear it, to get rid of the traces of dragons and destiny and focus on the warlock's question. What was the question?

"Come on," agrees Arthur. "Please, have a seat."

It's an order from a King; he cannot refuse even if he would prefer to turn tail and run and forget all about dragons and newly crowned kings and reincarnations. He walks across the field slowly and carefully as if he took a single misstep he'd trigger a hunter's trap.

As soon as he's crossed the thin threshold and is standing by the edge of the blanket, a heap of cookies are thrust into his hands before he can protest.

"Hello! I'm Prince James," announces the child who's given them (as if Uther wasn't already aware). "I'm going to be King one day and I'll be the best king ever."

It's been awhile since he was around such a small child - or any child at all - Uther quietly admits and he feels slightly awkward. Hopefully the boy won't start clinging to him or ask awkward questions or … anything of the sort. Though he must say the boy really looks like Arthur did at his age, except for the eyes, they're a more sapphire shade of blue. Thank god the boy hasn't inherited those giant ears!

"I am sure you will," he says and adds, remembering the boy still has a title, being his grandchild and all; "Sire."

"I'm going to make free cookies a law!"

"That sounds very nice, sire," Uther replies dutifully albeit he has his doubts who would appreciate such a thing. "It would be greatly appreciated among the people, I'm certain."

The boy swirls around to stare at his father. "See! He likes it! It's a great law," he exclaims triumphantly.

"We've had this discussion before, James," Arthur replies sternly. "You may pass laws once you're King, but now you are still a Prince and a little one at that. Now stop bothering poor George."

The Prince pouts. "That's not _fair_. Mama, tell papa it's not fair!"

"It may not be fair, but it's the way things are," Merlin replies calmly. "Sit down and eat, my little Prince."

The boy looks to be near the point of screaming, but then sir Gwaine steps up offering his piece of the blueberry tart and the Prince immediately calms, claiming and wolfing down the sweet cake in a heartbeat.

The Princess (whose name Uther yet doesn't know, much to his displeasure) is just a few months old and she clings possessively to Merlin, refusing to be put down, causing the adults to chuckle warmly.

"She's truly inherited your possessive trait, love," Arthur remarks.

" _You're_  not the one to say that," the royal consort responds. "You're even worse! I'm happy as long as she doesn't turn out to be as much as a prat as you."

The King tries looking serious but Uther can see he's biting back a smile. "I am  _not_  a prat."

 _A prat? They're still using that silly word?_ Uther rolls his eyes. _Heavens, that got old ages ago!_

"Yes, you are. A prat and a dollophead."

"What's a dollophead?" Prince James asks curiously, turning to his fathers while chewing on a piece of honeyed bread. Or is it 'fathers'? Now Uther starts growing slightly confused. Well. His son and son's husband  _are_  fathers. Even if one of them also technically is the mother. Oh, curse this! The youth have always troubled him; they always do things that make no sense and always break all the rules at every opportunity!

"Would you like a description?" Merlin asks playfully.

The child nods eagerly.

"Two words: King Arthur."

" _Mer_ lin!" cries the young King, without heat or ire. A huge grin is plastered on his face. "You're being a very bad influence."

The glare the warlock sends his husband could possibly burn down castles and forests and mountains within three seconds flat and Uther winces, pitying his son for being at the receiving end. At least the eyes aren't glowing gold (at the moment) or a demonic red (albeit it's very close) or any other suspicious colour (yet). The tone is dangerously sweet like a honey-covered beehive about to be let loose. It's rather painful also from this angle and Uther slowly inches backwards.

"'Bad influence'? ' _Bad influence_ '? What about when you completely trashed sir Bedivere last month –  _right in front of James_  – and the man had to be taken Gaius for acute treatment and wasn't let out for  _three days_?"

"That, that was just  _training_! An accident!" Arthur defends himself and nearly, almost squeaks and Uther has an odd urge to pat his shoulder comfortingly. He knows how it feels, at least sort of. "I didn't know James was watching! Plus Bedivere was distracted by that lad, Leon's servant (what's his name again?), and it served him right to be defeated when he wasn't focusing on more important things like using his sword to  _defend_   _himself_!"

The warlock's mood changes like a rapid wave, a beam of sunshine after the cold unforgiving gale. It must be mood swings, those awful things that Igraine had as well when she was carrying Arthur – if those pregnancy rumours are true (which Uther is pretty sure they are). It is rather terrifying.

"Oh, you mean Adair!" Merlin exclaims eagerly. "They've been making eyes at each other for the last few months you know. I wonder if either one planning on making on making a move yet."

"I don't know whether I'd be thankful if they did. Bedivere's mace-work is  _dreadful_ and he spends nowhere enough time practicing with the lance either. Imagine how many training sessions he'd skip due to 'sickness' if the two actually started having-"

"Not in front of Elaine!"

Arthur is wise enough to look sheepish. "Sorry, love."

To hide his snort, Uther takes a large sip of the spiced wine. Ah. Must be from Mercia; probably year 488 … a very good year, indeed. He's always liked Mercian wine.

 

* * *

Upon their return at the city, a servant rushes forward to announce that Aithusa – whoever that might be, probably some peasant like so many of Arthur's men nowadays – has just arrived and is waiting in the courtyard.

At the news Merlin looks ecstatic, but Arthur looks torn, a worried frown creasing his forehead. Maybe it  _isn't_  a knight. Or maybe  _(what if it is?!)_ the young King has something against said knight, given how happy Merlin seems and how the warlock with an odd sort of grace that Uther had no idea the clumsy boy possessed slides off the saddle, hurrying to the courtyard with Princess Elaine securely in his arms.

No, surely this Aithusa cannot be … with Merlin …  _no!_

Uther has a strong sudden urge to march up to the courtyard and make sure of it himself that it isn't true. It simply  _cannot be._

"Oh, don't look so downtrodden, Arthur!" the warlock cries over his shoulder. "He gave me no warning earlier so I'm sure there's no bad news."

This makes Arthur brighten up and his tense shoulders relax. "I hope you're right, my love."

To his great annoyance, Uther is made to take the horses down to the stables, so he cannot follow his son and see who this Aithusa  _really_  is.

That is a duty which King Arthur later would regret giving him, when it takes the king-come-servant nearly an hour to find those bloody stables because not only as a King doesn't Uther usually go there (what are stablehands for if not to bring out horses when he needs them, and put them back when he's done?) and the castle has been slightly redecorated over the years.

And once he actually  _finds_  the stables, he has no idea where each horse should go or where to put the saddles and by now, Arthur's steed Hengroen has already tried biting him three times and he's well and bloody tired of this bloody work and loudly complaining about that. In response Hengroen only tries biting him again and the stablehands are staring openly but refusing to help, shuffling awkwardly as they hide in the corners.

In retrospect, that might be because Uther's yelling like a madman at the stupid horse and stupid destiny and stupid voices in his head.

 

* * *

As nightfall comes around, an exhausted Uther is making his way toward the King's chambers when he realizes that he isn't King and thus cannot go to sleep in the King's chamber. He has nowhere to go. Even if the servant who's body he's now occupying might have someplace to live, Uther had no idea where and he would rather not go to some pig's sty which must be the equivalent of a servant's house.

There's the option of going to the Chief of Staff to complain. Or possible beg (not that Uther would ever 'beg' – more like, convincing him) for some free lodging. He doesn't have a single coin on him either!

"Stupid destiny, stupid reincarnation putting me in this body-"

"George, what are you doing here? It's very late."

He swirls around to come to face with that lady again. Now she wears a deeply red dress with fine embroidery and truly looks like a lady. What's her name – Grunhilda? Genève? He should remember it by now! He's sure he knows her face from  _somewhere_  …

Ah! Wasn't that Morgana's servant girl, Guinevere! Yes, that's it. But whatever is she doing dressed like that? No servant would look like that, or have such a strong bearing! No, something's changed. _She was the girl who was accused of sorcery when the water was poisoned,_ a voice whispers in his head and he mentally curses. Sorcerers here, sorcerers there, sorcerers everywhere!

"I was –" Momentarily he halts. Should he ask her if there's anywhere appropriate for him to stay over the night? No! He can't do that! That'd be pathetic. He's Uther Pendragon, he has no need to ask servant girls for lodging – no, that'd reflect badly on him. "I was just retiring."

"Ah. All right, well, I'll see you in the morning, George. By the way, I think Richard's going to stay abed for a few more days so it's best you take his place tomorrow. Merlin's got Gilli taking care of him and Arthur can be such a handful in the mornings, especially when there are council meetings … Not, not that I know about his behaviour in the mornings or, you, you know. Just what Merlin's told me. Oh, that didn't sound right…" She lets out a small awkward laugh. "You just have to bring him his breakfast and so, Gilli's so kind taking care of the rest or Merlin has the chores done by magic – you know how selfless he is and – oh, I'm getting off track now …"

Hm, that would give him an opportunity to see his son more closely. How can he say no, truly? Besides, it can't be  _that_  bad, being a manservant; it's just temporarily, for a day or a few hours.

"All right then. I shall do it."

"Thank you, George! You've spared us all so much trouble."

Then, she steps up and  _hugs_  him.

Uther stands utterly still and stiff and, oh god, the maidservant-maybe-lady is  _hugging him._ It's brief and short and the woman smiled awkwardly when she breaks away.

"Sorry. It's just I've been helping the Chief of Staff to search for a substitute all afternoon. It's such a relief to hear you'll help out. Well, I must rush now, I have dinner with sir Lancelot. See you tomorrow, George!"

…

Well that had certainly been … odd.

…

Right, lodgings. He needs to find someplace to sleep. Yes, it's best to focus on that and not on the weird behavior of Camelot's inhabitants in general and its castle staff in particular.

 

* * *

For some half an hour he walk around aimlessly, letting his feet carry him around without any particular goal, until he stumbles upon the Royal Librarian's residence. By now the sky is dark and the corridors a bit cold. Surely Geoffrey is still around? The man is ancient but as stubborn as rock, he'll probably reach the one hundredth mark without issue.

Taking his chances, Uther knocks with firm authority on the dark heavy doors. The smell of candle-wax and dry parchment hits his nose violently as the doors open inwards.

"…What are you doing here?" the old man asks suspiciously. His beard must've grown by at least a foot, the former King notes. It's a wonder he doesn't keep stumbling on it.

Oh, right. He doesn't look or sound like Uther, of course the librarian doesn't know it's  _him_! "I was seeking lodgings for the night, sir," he answers respectfully.

"Well go bother someone else!"

The doors are unceremoniously shut in his face. There's not even an offered 'Good night'.

_How very rude!_

 

* * *

"What, you've got no money?" The owner of the Rising Sun squints at him displeasedly. "No, you can't get a room for free."

Uther frowns at him darkly. "Surely-" he begins but is not allowed to finish the sentence.

"And  _no_ ," continues the burly man in a strong, annoyed voice, "buttons do not count as payment!"

That's it; Uther's had enough of pleading and being nice and pretending to be pathetic.

"GIVE ME A ROOM YOU MORON OR I'LL HAVE YOU IN THE STOCKS!" he yells very, very angrily, face red and his breath sharp. "I BET YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE STOCKS AND I GUARANTEE IT'LL MAKE YOU FEEL AS PATHETIC AS YOU LOOK. SO IF YOU WANT TO AVOID THAT, GIVE. ME. A. ROOM. NOW!"

The taverner's eyes widen as the whole room goes quiet, dices stilling on their tables and people pausing in the middle of a drink. Then, slowly, a few of them stands and starts backing out, food and jugs of ale still littering their tables. No one speaks a single word, glancing at one another or staring fixedly at the servant.

This, of course, does not please the burly man. "Now look what you've done, you're frightening away my costumers!  _Get out_  of my tavern - out, out,  _out_!" He starts waving his arms wildly and dangerously and shouts for the guards.

Somewhat disheartened Uther walks out of the inn (back straight and proud: he'd rather walk out himself than get  _dragged_  out by the guards like some misbehaving drunkard), glaring at the dark star-dotted sky. The tiny blinking lights have no business looking so cheerful.

He heaves a sigh, squaring his shoulders. Where can he go? There's no way he's sleeping in the stables…!

But. There's that, or asking Gaius for a room. Stables, Gaius. Stables.

 

* * *

"Back again? Please, George, do  _not_  tell me you've had another incident."

"There was no accident or other such thing!" Uther says irritably. "I'm hungry and tired and sore and I need someplace to sleep."

The physician narrows his eyes at him and Uther groans; he's severely tired of that expression by now. "Have you forgotten the way to the servants' quarters?"

"Servant's quarters!" he exclaims heatedly. "I'd  _never_  retire to such a lowly, dirty place!"

The old man sends him an odd look, then sighs, and closes the door.

"I have no room for freeloaders, George. But fine. For tonight then, tonight only. There's a bed up there." Gaius gestures at the adjourning chamber.

_A bed! Oh thank god._

Unfortunately, it turns out the mattress is thin and hard and lumpy and probably full of lice, and there's only a thin blanket and  _no pillows_. And Gaius says he'll wake him early in the morning for him to get on time with his duties (to which Uther objects, he's had such a bothersome long day – he deserves a lie-in!) and there's no guarantee there'll be any breakfast. There's also the distinct smell of herbs and frog-paste irritating Uther's nose all through the night. What wouldn't he do to have back his old bed in his old room!

But when he starts complaining Gaius threatens to have him thrown out without further ado, so Uther wisely chooses to shut up.

Everything is so,  _so_  unfair.


	3. How to Handle Awkward Mornings and Supposed-to-be-extinct Dragons

The King's chambers are empty.

Or more precisely  _unoccupied_ : because when looking around Uther finds they're not void of furniture, rather packed with them like a mere storage room. He can make out unused beds, armoires and tables in the gloom. Everything is covered with pristine white sheets and a very fine layer of dust. There's not a single candle burning, and the pale sunlight spilling through the cracks between the long thick curtains create long oddly former shadows making the room look cramped and slightly eerie.

What's this? Uther frowns darkly. How can the King  _not_ be in the King's chambers?

This is ... This is  _outrageous!_

Angrily he storms out of the room and the filled tray which he'd fetched in the kitchens (thank god he didn't have to actually prepare the food himself!) nearly topples over in his white-knuckled grip. Some of the grapefruit juice sloshes dangerously over the brim of the goblet but Uther is too preoccupied to notice.

Surely Arthur cannot still be residing in his old chambers? Those are a Prince's rooms, not a King's; they are far too small and simple! Not to mention they don't have any kind of conveniently attached chambers for a Queen (or  _Consort_  as it is now) to reside!

Or is Arthur … Is he  _sharing_  his room, without any separate chambers, with …?

_Oh no!_

If that is so, that means, there's a chance of the two being in the very same room in the very same bed at this  _moment_. And Uther has got to  _walk in there_  and serve them breakfast in a professional manner without reacting at any kind of – intimacy that might be happening at this moment between the two because Arthur hasn't the sense to give his Consort separate chambers to which the King would only go when desiring such -  _intimacies_. They might even be ...  _right now!_

_Oh god oh god oh god._

He squares his shoulders like a warrior who is about to enter a battlefield. There's only one way to find out and he cannot run away like a coward! He's King of Camelot damn it!

They're only down the corridor which is the only upside of this day. The doors are closed but not locked, and there are no guards  _– no guards! What's with the poor security?! No guards, just sorcerers everywhere! Oh, oh, poor Camelot! Everything's going downhill…!_

Awkwardly he shifts the tray so that he gets a hand free to open the door. As a King, he is not that used to knocking (more used to having people make way and for trumpets to blow and his name being called out in all its might whenever he walks down a corridor) and thus, he does not knock at the door before entering.

Which he comes to regret shortly thereafter.

 _Oh_.

On the large bed, a quite bare King Arthur and an equally undressed Consort Warlock are deeply engaged in, well, err,  _intimate_  activities that married, in-love couples often can be on early mornings when they wake in each other's arms. Naked intimate activities. Partly under the covers and deep among the pillows but still - that's his  _son_  and his lover, and they're -

 **"Oh my god!** "

The tray slips from his hands and reaches the floor with a crash along with Uther's jaw.

The loud noise startles the couple and they break apart and the warlock flushes red, diving under the covers clearly embarrassed about his naked state. Arthur is half-way to his sword attached to the belt lying on the bedside table when he sees that it isn't an assassin intruding, rather a simple servant. (Well, not  _really_  a simple servant, but Arthur isn't aware of this so it hardly matters from his point of view.) The blonde man's eyes widen and he chokes, and he waves his sword in the man's direction pointedly.

"W-what are you doing here? Haven't you ever heard about  _knocking_ , you  ** _imbecile_?!"**

Arthur's voice is slightly high-pitched and his neck is red and he's still holding the sword in a rather protective manner, as if to defend himself and the other man occupying the bed from anyone daring to come nearer. It's working quite well.

"I'm, uh." Uther clears his throat, trying to sound as calm as possible while averting his eyes. It takes a moment to find words, to gather his thoughts, because -  _Oh god! My son, he - they – oh my god!_

"I...I am your new manservant while what's-his-face, err – Manfred, no, Isaac, I mean Richard is ill – s-sire."

The tone's a bit wobbly at the end and Uther doesn't know where to look; if he's to look at his son's face despite the dreadful embarrassment and shock, or at the walls, or if he's to close his eyes very very tightly and walk out of the door, breakfast is ruined anyway, because. Arthur. And naked. And Merlin. And bed.

And …

_OH. MY. GOD!_

" **Whatever**!" Arthur cries. Loudly. And he's still  _naked._  "Learn to knock you stupid idiot! Don't you know you're not supposed to just  _walk in_  and—"

"Arthur," cuts the warlock in, peeking up through the thick duvets and the movement of out the corner of his eye causes Uther's focus to shift, so that he's looking at the boy even if he hadn't meant to. "Don't be so harsh on him; he's never served such a prat like you before. Though knocking would be ... quite good yeah."

"Exactly!" agrees Arthur, loudly, and he  _still_  hasn't let go of the sword. He points it in Uther's direction, fire in his gaze and he looks ready to gauge George's, err, Uther's eyes out with a fork. "And you, stop staring damn it!  **No one**  stares at  _my_  Merlin!"

Immediately the King-come-servant looks someplace else. The pattern of the floor is very interesting. He'd never known there was a crack there in that particular stone or that they had that reddish shade …

"I-I'm sorry for the intrusion, sire."

No, that was  _not_  a squeak. Because Uther Pendragon, nay, no Pendragon in history never, ever ' _squeaks'_.

"Fine." The King exhales through his nose, evidently trying to calm down and compose himself. "You apology is accepted. You can go. Be back in a couple of hours, with food," orders Arthur firmly and gestures at the mess on the floor: "You can take care of that later. But anything like this again and I  _will_  have you in the stocks for your incompetence!"

 _"Arthur,"_  Merlin mutters to his husband, the tone warning.

The King sends his Consort a look like a kicked puppy.

Uther is steadily inching toward the doors already and he's more than happy to flee. He doesn't want to think about what the two starts doing the moment the doors close behind him.

 

* * *

After the  _incident_  this morning he feels terribly, dreadfully mortally embarrassed and he doesn't want to ever, ever face his son again. At least not for a very, very long while.

For a moment he considers giving Arthur the Talk. No, no, not  _that_  Talk - another Talk, the one about Manners and Why You Don't Hop Into Bed With Your Consort Without Locking Doors First And Especially Not When Servants Are Due To Appear At Any Moment Because That Is Unbecoming Behaviour. And also maybe a Talk about Court Etiquette.

Luckily by the time he returns with an over-filled tray (the cook had glared at him oddly when he'd come to demand a second tray; maybe that was because it was after breakfast hours thus the whole kitchen was busy with preparing lunch) at Arthur's chambers the boy is well and properly dressed, as is his Consort. That sorcerer from yesterday and a knight whom Uther just very vaguely recognizes is also there, along with an elderly woman with a long braid down her back.

The old woman is talking gently to the warlock and laying a hand on his stomach (Arthur's eyes glints possessively just so but no threats are uttered and no swords are reached for), smiling; Uther appears just in time to tune in on the conversation.

"…will be overjoyed!" she's saying. "This is any grandma's dream."

Grandma? Who  _is_  that woman?!

"Thank you, Alice," King Arthur says, voice warm. "You and Gaius will be there, I hope?"

"Absolutely, sire! How could we miss it?" the woman answers and smiles. "Now Merlin, you must make sure to eat regularly …"

"Yes, yes, I know," the warlock says with a sigh and roll of eyes, casing the woman to chuckle. "Honestly, Gaius is rubbing off on you! Really, one would think I'd never had a baby before."

Alice, as is apparently her name, pats his cheek. She doesn't look as if she were related by blood to the boy, but given how many surprises Uther had faced over the last few days, it wouldn't startle him (so much) if the woman really was the warlock's grandmother (she's looking incredibly well for her age though). Or at least his adopted grandmother. "We're all just caring about you, dear."

Uther really starts regretting coming here. So he puts down the over-filled late breakfast tray on the table and start backing out hoping they won't notice him, for once. But whenever has he ever been so lucky?

"George! There you are," Arthur says cheerily (though Uther doesn't miss the slight strain to his voice or the slightly narrowed eyes). Uther makes sure to avoid looking at the young King's face or at Merlin because he can't stop the mental images from rising and then his face heats up and really, this isn't how Uther planned on spending this day. Maybe Arthur will spare him the trouble of Destiny and whatnot and have him hung for the  _incident_  this morning.

Alas, again he has no such luck.

"George, I need you to pick out some fine clothes for me. We have an important announcement to make," the King states proudly, resting a hand atop of the warlock's stomach and Uther stares at the hand and the bulge, realizing –  _it's true, it's really true, ohmygod ...!_

"Oi, what about 'suspense'?" Merlin cuts in, elbowing the blonde though not ungently.

 _"George_  would hardly tell the whole castle."

A very sharp warning look is sent his way and it's an eerie shadow of his own glare which Uther remembers practicing in front of the mirror on Monday mornings. He retaliates as is appropriate, which makes Arthur nod pleased in his direction.

"Well, I guess you're right," the warlock admits with a small sigh, smiling fondly. "Half the castle probably suspects anyway and they've already told the other half."

"See? Everything'll be fine. George is  _reliable."_

Uther's pretty sure there's a warning underneath that: a warning of something dreadful and painful if he ever, ever let it slip that he's walked in on the King and his Consort, err - doing  _that._  As if Uther would ever tell anyone. He's already become aware of the fact that nobody takes George the Servant seriously. Well, maybe Gaius ...

But no, not really. The old man just takes some pity on him, letting him stay there for time being. Must be the rumours of George's clumsy 'incidents' that makes the old man worry and let him be near, 'to keep an eye on him' (as if Uther needs  _anyone_  to keep an eye on him!)

"Well, where's that finery?" Arthur demands loudly, cutting through Uther's train of thoughts. "Find it and bring it to me. We'll be in the Nursery."

Then he and the Warlock are gone along with the elderly woman and Uther is left alone in the spacious chambers, with no clue where the bloody Nursery is located. Or the finery. Or anything really.

He'll just have to improvise then.

 

* * *

"Get out of my way! Get out of my way!"

As per usual the hallways are crowded, mostly by servants and Uther speeds through them caring naught if one or two falls over nearly breaking their bones, or if those servants also drop whatever they're holding. It's not his fault. He's in a hurry. That is also not his fault. No, that's his son's fault since the man demanded he fine that finery and bring it to the Nursery.

Eventually he had, after digging through every wardrobe in the King's (Prince's) chambers, located some very fine clothing that would have to do. But after that came the next issue:

Where the hell is the Nursery?!

"Hey, watch it!" cries yet another person as he crashes into them. It's another servant, this one coming straight from the kitchen it seems. The boy is carrying a tray loaded with wine bottles and filled glasses, which is a very stupid idea - carrying those around. Uther would've told the boy exactly that if he hadn't crashed into him so violently that they both fall. The tray slips from the boy's hands.

Only thanks to his superior warrior senses which he has trained so many years manages Uther to catch it. Unfortunately, his senses have also diminished slightly, probably because of age – no, wait! No, it's not because of his current or any age. It's because he's in this stupid clumsy servant-body, that's why.

The wine bottles topple over and their content spills onto the nearest person. Which also happens to be a nobleman, surrounded by a group of knights and servants wearing another kind of livery than those of Camelot. A visiting noble.

And Uther just spilled a bottle of wine on him.

…  _damn it all!_

The boy who originally carried the tray is quick to come to his feet and run but, alas, Uther is not as quick, and the nobleman's guard moves forward and grabs his arms shaking him like a disobedient puppy before he can escape them.

"Whaa- Let go of me!" No one,  _no one,_  grabs the former King of Camelot in this manner. "Release me at once, you buffoons!"

The nobleman is evidently not very pleased about that.

A group of Knights of Camelot happen to pass by that moment. The visiting dignitary is swift to draw their attention.

"I demand this man is punished for this outrageous behaviour!" the squat red-faced man shrieks waving his hands around very animatedly. His servants struggle to keep out of the way of the rage and even the guards seem rattled, something unbecoming and Uther would've remarked on it were it not for the fact that the dignitary was angry with  _him_.

The nearest knight bows good-naturedly. "Of course, my lord. Sir Lancelot will escort you up to the castle while we deal with the unruly servant."

'Unruly'! What an unjust insult!

"I am not  _unruly_  or anything else which you imply-" Uther begins heatedly and the visiting nobleman cuts him off, completely aghast.

"You let your servants speak like this?! Wait until I let King Arthur know of this occurrence! You will  _suffer_!"

The knight shuffles slightly, probably starting to get a bit anxious as well in case the nobleman decides he too should be 'punished'. "Err, not really. As earlier said, George is quite – unruly. He's fallen down the stairs countless times you see; it's probably damaged his head. He can't help it."

"I HAVE NOT DAMAGED MY HEAD!"

"Shut up, George, we're trying to save your backside here," mutters the guard holding him and Uther goes completely rigid.

What? They call this 'saving'? Uther would call this 'outing'! This is completely unfair! And the nobleman hasn't yet left or moved, meaning he'll probably stick around until he's completely sure that George is well and properly punished. The nobleman has a look on his face indicating he'd prefer the servant to be flogged or skinned alive and roasted on a spit.

Honestly, it was just a bit of wine! How could that hurt anybody?

The dignitary is now red like an overblown tomato in the face. It's a wonder he still can breathe. "I want him punished immediately!"

"Of course, my lord." The knight bows again (but it's slightly mocking and Uther hears the nobleman gnash his teeth). He then turns to the other armour men present. "I think he needs to learn some humility. Don't you, lads?"

Uther immediately recognizes that tone of voice and choice of wording. It's exactly what he'd done when he'd been young and what Arthur had done as Prince and what the Knights sometimes do as well when they're not otherwise busy. He digs his heels into the ground, refusing to be dragged off like a common  _fool_.

The nobleman looks entirely too pleased to hear that, gathering up his wine-stained cloak and starting to walk away, led by sir Lancelot who keeps glancing over his shoulder worriedly which also worries Uther. When a knight starts doing things like that, it's bad. It's very bad indeed.

"NO, I  _WILL NOT_  HAVE IT - RELEASE ME!"

The knights are relentless and strong and Uther curses his frail servantly body that does nothing but cause trouble.

"I'LL HAVE YOU PUNISHED FOR THIS!" he shouts, feeling a little bit of satisfaction about it since a King shouting threats like that must be threatening to anyone nea, but the knights just glance at him weirdly.

"He sounds pretty serious," the tall knight with giant biceps and no sleeves, says and frowns slightly. "What if…"

"Hardly!" exclaims the first knight. But then he falters and turns to the struggling Uther thoughtfully. "Unless of course he's magic. You wouldn't happen to be a sorcerer, would you, George?"

Now  **that**  is an insult Uther cannot take. Him, consorting with  _magic_! It's bad enough that Camelot's got a magic Royal Consort and is overrun by druids and other magic folk!

"NEVER!"

"Oh, good then. Don't worry, this won't hurt you. Too much."

 

* * *

A carrot strikes him square in the forehead causing him to wince. Or he would've winced if not for the manacles and his aching back and legs and the wood holding him in place.

"I DEMAND YOU TO RELEASE ME!"

Nobody's listening.  _Damn it all!_

In the background, observing the children throwing rotten vegetables at the servant in the stocks, are two knights clad in shining armour.

"I honestly don't see how this is going to work, Gwaine," says the tallest one to his companion, who looks absolutely gleeful. "He's still as loud and demanding as he was half an hour ago."

"Oh but you know, Percival, humility is a lesson hard learned."

"You know when King Arthur finds out he won't be very happy."

"Aw, come on, we're doing him a favor! I heard George served him and Merlin this morning. One of the scullery maids passing the corridor heard him yell a lot and the King yell back."

The tall knight's eyes widen. "Arthur  _and_  Merlin?"

"Yes! D'you reckon he saw—"

" _Gwaine_!" the man admonishes, face going red. "We can't talk about that in the open street!"

"Oh, but behind closed doors it's fine?"

Uther can't help but overhear that last bit and his ears go stark red. Oh god, how can they speak of such things, about their King no less?  _Oh god._

"You didn't complain during the meeting last night-"

"Gwaine!" sir Percival hisses more forcefully this time. "That's supposed to be a  _secret_!"

"Secret how? I mean, half of Camelot's population has joined the Group," sir Gwaine continues and smirks.

Group? What Group? What kind of group has meetings that take place during the middle of night where they discuss Kings and their Consorts behind closed doors?

Unless…

Unless it's  _that_  kind of Group.

A violent shudder works its way through Uther's body at this realization. Oh, how dearly he wishes his hands were free so he could tear at his hair! And preferably shortly afterwards steal one of the guards' swords and throw himself on it.

In the background sir Percival lets out a sigh - "Fair enough." - and his companion pats his back grinning like a loon.

"That's what we all want to hear, my friend."

He's had enough. He can listen no more to the knights' stupid gossip especially when they do so quite loudly in the open street, not hesitating to speak of their Group wherein they discuss Private Matters concerning the royal couple of Camelot. Nay, no father should be forced to hear it!

"ENOUGH!" he shouts loudly, hoping to gain anybody's attention and cut the knights off. He rattles the manacles around his wrists. "RELEASE ME AT ONCE!"

A tomato lands with a splash in his right eye.

"I SAID RELEASE ME!"

"You know, Gwaine, I hardly think 'a lesson on humility' is going to work on him," sir Percival remarks. An angry growl tears out of Uther's throat.

"I'LL HAVE YOU IN THE DUNGEONS FOR THIS! NAY, I SHALL BURN YOU ALL ON THE PYRES LIKE WITCHES! I SHALL HAVE YOU THROWN IN LAKES TO PROVE THAT YOU FLOAT LIKE WOOD BECAUSE YOU ARE WITCHES AND THEN I SHALL BURN YOU!"

A nearby group of salesmen turn to stare at him. A few of the peasants scattered about begins to draw away, including the cabbage-throwers. Uther lets out a sigh of relief. It worked! Or at least partly, because while he is no longer being pelted with Unmentionable Things the guards are still ignoring him and the two knights are still standing there talking like nothing's wrong.

"Oh, shut it George! You're scaring away everyone."

"THAT'S THE POINT, PEASANTS! NOW RELEASE ME!"

That very moment, there's the sound of hooves clattering against the pavement and Uther warily lifts his head, at least as far as he can, and immediately regrets it. Because there sits Arthur proud and regal on a warrior steed, and his whole family is there as well, the little ones staring curiously at the servant trapped in the stocks. Uther wishes he could sink into the ground and disappear. Oh, the humiliation! To have his own son see him in this state, and his grandchildren as well!

"What's all this shouting about?" the King asks raising an eyebrow in the prisoner's direction. (Gaius must've taught him to do that; how very traitorous of him!). "George,  _again_?" Arthur sighs. "What's it this time?"

"Ah, good day, sires," sir Gwaine bows elegantly from the waist. "Well you see George here unfortunately caused grave injury to the visiting lord, err, what's his face-"

"Lord Dagonet," inserts sir Percival.

"Yes, him. Anyway, Lord Dagonet was gravely injured due to an accident caused by George …"

Uther takes a deep breath to prepare his defence: "THERE WAS NO ACCIDENT! AND HE WAS NOT INJURED! DAGONET IS A GIANT FOOL! HOW COULD SOME WINE HARM HIM?!"

The knight goes on without pause: "… And he fairly  _insisted_  George must be punished, but we could hardly have him flogged... He needed to learn some humility. But sire, I am afraid he's scaring away everyone in the market with his shouting and that is not good for Camelot's business."

Arthur nods kingly, his giant golden crown bobbing up and down on his temple. It is a rather ridiculous crown, wherever did he get it from? Why isn't he using the old crown Uther used to have? Oh, the troublesome youth.

"Fair enough. Put him in the dungeons for time being, we need some peace and quiet. And fetch me Lord Dagonet, I need to speak with him."

Wait - what? The  _dungeons?!_

" _Nooooo_ …!"

 

* * *

The dungeons are cold and damp and nobody can hear his shouting, no matter how much he shakes the bars, except for the guards. And the guards decide to ignore him and play dice. When he demands their heads to be cut off and stomped upon and then crushed like bugs and then burned on the stake (all in that order), they don't even  _twitch._

Who the hell chose those useless guards to be on duty?!

Oh, if not for that Lord! If that nobleman hadn't been standing at that exact spot in the corridor the exact moment Uther passed by, nothing would've happened and he would never had to be forced to endure this torture.

 _Lord Dagonet..._  Uther thinks darkly.  _You shall pay for this ... Oh yes, I promise you: I will have my revenge sooner or later ..._

 

* * *

When Uther finds himself released from the dungeons several weary hours later, he realizes, aghast, he still hasn't brought that finery to his son - his son whom is about to make a Very Important Announcement any moment now. The fine pieces of clothing had been ripped from his hands and probably been carried back to the King's rooms when he'd been arrested. That means, he has to go back and then find the Nursery, wherever that is … and he has less than five minutes to do so, or else he'll probably be stuck in the stocks again. An experience Uther Pendragon swears he will never – I repeat:  _never_  – go through again.

Without hesitating he dashes down the halls toward Arthur's rooms. Running is very awkward – he hasn't run or dashed or anything for years, it feels like, not since he was about Arthur's age. Kings don't run like panicked servants. No, they walk steadily and headfast, with sparkling jewelry and long cloaks billowing behind them to show just how calm and powerful and awesome they are.

Oh, how dearly he misses his beloved crown!

Two minutes left. A shortcut is logically the best way right now. Being the former King of Camelot he knows ever crook of the citadel, and he picks the first hidden passage he finds, in an alcove near the laundress' quarters. This tunnel will open up in a corridor a hundred feet to the east, that'll take approximately thirty-five seconds – only one minute to go now! – and then he has to cross the courtyard …

Much to Uther's dismay, he is too late.

Arthur's voice rings out across the courtyard, strong and powerful.

But thankfully, someone else in his absence – but that absence was not at all his fault! It's all because of the stupid Lord Dagonet and the wine – had brought Arthur his fine clothes and he and his family look perfectly presentable; every inch the royalty they are.

"People of Camelot, I, Arthur Pendragon, am proud to announce that we shall soon have an addition to the royal household."

Excited whoops and applauds echo between the tall walls that surround the large yard where a huge mass of people have gathered. The King of Camelot stands on the balcony above with his family; the Royal Consort's face appears aglow with happiness. Nearby, acting as bodyguards, stands several Knights of the Round Table. One in particular is very excited, waving a red and gold flag with the Pendragon insignia on it.

Said knight's yelling of "Go Princess!" reaches Uther's ears and blood rushes up to his neck with embarrassment at such a bold …  _statement_  where anybody could hear.

Seriously, nobody around this castle have any sense of propriety anymore!

 

* * *

Night begins to fall over the city and Uther drags himself to Gaius' chambers, hoping there'll be a meal waiting for him. Surely there'll be? Of course there must! Gaius must be used to serving food every night for two given his ward lived with him before. Yes. If there is not food, then he'll order the old man to go to the kitchens and fetch some – it's simply fair since Uther's worked so hard all day, dealing with awkward mornings and stuck-up selfish Lords and having rotten fruit pelted at him – oh, what has he  _ever_  done to deserve all this?

He's just reached the door and laid a hand on the knob, when…

" _Hey you! Uther! Hey, I'm talking to you!"_

He reacts at once, startled; swirling around grabbing for his sword which should be at his belt but isn't because servants don't carry around swords.  _Stupid servant-body!_

Then he realizes nobody's there. The voice was in his  _head_. Which means…

" _Not **you**!"_

There's a dry chuckle.  _"I think it's time we talk face-to-face, Pendragon. There's a clearing five miles northeast of the city. Meet me there in an hour."_

" _Don't order me around like that, senseless lizard!"_

" _Would you prefer me fetching you instead?"_

An image enters his mind of a giant dragon (what colour or markings it has however is vague since he's never actually seen this dragon) sweeping down over the Camelot, people running around screaming and roofs catching fire; then the guards rushing out to arrest him and King Arthur sending him a Gaius-styled eyebrow-look. And then how he's thrown into the dungeons for letting a dragon create havoc on the city.

Letting the dragon come and go as it wish probably isn't a good idea.

"… _Fine. I'll go. But know I'd have you chained in a cave if I could!"_

" _But you can't,"_  the dragon says smugly and Uther can almost picture its smirk.  _"An hour. I'm not that patient though. Could you bother bringing me something to eat? Not a sheep though. They're nasty; the wool gets stuck between my teeth all the time. A cow would be fine."_

Uther blanches. Not only must he sneak past the guards to get out the city without raising any suspicion, and somehow get his hands on a transport – now the dragon wants him to steal a cow as well!

" _There's my limit! I **will not**  do it!"_

" _A pity,"_  the creature sighs. " _Very well, I guess I should be glad you agree coming to me at all."_

 

* * *

The clearing isn't that hard to find. Uther has, after all, been a warrior and hunter in his youth, once when he was Prince. Back then, hunting had been his favourite pastime (next to sneaking into the young Princess Lyonesse's room whenever she was visiting Camelot with her father to take the heads off her dolls) and so he easily locates a path leading straight northeast; the woods are quickly growing dark and Uther is glad he brought a torch.

When he arrives the clearing is already occupied by a creature with bright white scales. It unrolls its tail and lifts his head to study him wordlessly.

Uther  _stares_.

"You're…you're…"

"What?!" the dragon demands impatiently, tail swishing back and forth and thin tendrils of smoke rising from its nostrils.

"You're so …  _small_."

"I am  _anything but_!" the creature protests. "I am a whole six years old!"

Uther glares at it. "I won't have this; not only have I been brought back from the dead, now I'm expected to obey the words of a  _hatchling_. Nay, the deal's off. I'm going."

He moves to mount the horse, grabbing the reins. But suddenly a shadow looms over him and the next moment something grabs his collar and he finds himself thrown back onto the ground.

The dragon growls, its face very, very close to his own. Uther begins to fear for the sake of his eyebrows; having none is never in fashion and he doesn't want the dragon to burn his off because of its nearness. " _Never_ , ever call me a hatchling!"

"I'M NEARLY TEN TIMES YOUR SENIOR! I REFUSE TO TAKE ORDERS FROM YOU!"

"I AM NOT A HATCHLING!"

"HATCHLING!"

The massive  _roar_  of the dragon drowns him. A large black cloud of smoke billows over him, blinding him completely; Uther drops the torch and waves his hands around wildly trying to clear the air. He chokes and coughs violently.

Once the smoke finally rises and he can breathe again, he turns to the creature, which has backed away slightly and now looks smug. Probably pleased for almost killing him. If only he had a sword…!

"I'll have your head for that!"

"I'd like to see you  _try_!"

It is clearly doomed to escalate from there.

 

* * *

The physician sends him an unimpressed look as he returns covered from head to toe in black dust, his hair ruffled and clothes askew, at an hour when most citizens have been to bed for a long while.

"Whatever has happened this time, George?" Gaius asks. " _Please_  do not tell me you fell down the stairs."

Uther barely manages to contain a shudder when the Eyebrow is raised in his direction. "I – fire – kitchen. Yes, that is it. There was a fire in the kitchen. Which I so heroically stopped. Yes. That's it. Now stop bothering me, old man!"

He thunders past, up to the adjourning chamber and collapses on the mattress. Finally he can have some well-deserved sleep and for a few hours forget about this whole mess. What he wouldn't do to escape it all…!

The old man shakes his head, muttering to himself as he turns back to the cauldron where he's boiling some malodorous medicine. "Young people these days…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Dagonet and Lyonesse are mentioned in the original Arthurian legends; however I've (one of them probably and the other quite deliberately, for future plot purposes) given them completely the wrong roles. Other Arthurian characters will appear in this story and if they aren't familiar beforehand I'll explain them as they come along. But I'll try not to 'invent' any new characters; rather I prefer taking them out of the classical legends._
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> _You may also have noticed that Aithusa is male here. This is because as I saw the episode 'Aithusa' I first assumed the white dragon to be male, and only later heard of it being female, when I'd already started writing this - so I've kept it this way. I hope it doesn't bother anyone._  
> 


	4. How to Handle Old Acquaintances

The tall doors to the throne opened to reveal a royal entourage; not overly large, to avoid appearing hostile, but not too modest either. The Queen of Carleon had never shied away and her power is absolute. Just like all of her kinsmen she has a strong passion for furs and today she has a large red one draped over her shoulders, and her dress is made partially from leather. Uther spots a dagger (or two or rather three) in her belt. Ah, prepared for battle as usual. At least  _some_  things never change.

Arthur and Merlin rise in perfect synch from their twin thrones to greet her. The blonde King grins broadly – a sight which makes Uther blink.

He had rarely, if ever, greeted a visiting noble with such an honest smile. With the exception for King Olaf, of course, before his daughter and Arthur attempted to…

Well, that was a long time ago, and things had changed. Besides he wasn't aware that Arthur knew Queen Annis that well – last time Uther had met her and her husband (where was that man anyway?) it had been because of a minor squabble eight or ten years ago, hardly worthy of mentioning. Arthur had been there but not had a major role; standing in the background looking a proper prince. That was how Uther had learned that the Queen had a fairly sharp tongue.

Oh yes, fair enough, he  _had_  ordered a large patrol over her boarders but really he hadn't meant to  _attack_ … really. Or burn down that village and plunder it. Or lead her troops into that fight …

Well … maybe a little bit.

"Ah! Queen Annis. It's a pleasure to finally have you here! Welcome, welcome."

"And I find it most pleasurable to be here, King Arthur," the Queen responds nodding her head in respect. "It has been too long."

"'Tis a pity we cannot cross paths more often."

"Indeed it is."

Annis then turns to Merlin and greets him as well, without surprise or malice of a peasant being on a throne – so she must have visited before, Uther concludes. Neither does the Queen raise an eyebrow, at least a physical eyebrow (Uther can't be sure about what she's really thinking), when seeing the prominent bulging belly that the warlock is resting one of his hands on contently. "Oh! I must congratulate," she says smoothly and smiles. "Your marriage has truly proven to be fruitful."

It's the most honest smile Uther's ever seen on the Queen of Caerleon – she can be so ruthless sometimes; she probably spends a lot of time with the knights training with the sword and the spear and can be just as lethal as her soldiers. Therefore Uther has rarely seen her smile, unless they are the product of sarcasm. But this smile is honest, true and kind, and then she says something about it being such a fruitful marriage and Uther stares at her because of the blatancy.

Arthur glows with pride (though Merlin glows even more). "Thank you, my lady," the warlock says dipping his head.

Oh … Queen Annis is  _just_  as bad with her doting on the royal couple as the knight and other general population of Camelot, though she hides it a lot better. But Uther has a hunch that she might gather her maidservants in the evening to gossip about –

Nay, he shan't go there! No, no, no. For heaven's sake, he's Arthur's father! A father shouldn't have to ever think of his son's … relations in such a manner!

"When is the little one due?" Annis continues.

"In mid-September, our court physician reckons," Merlin answers.

The Queen looks around and notices the small figure clinging to the King's red cloak; she smiles gently at them when a tiny dark head peeks out to peer at her curiously. "And this must be the little Princess! I am sorry I have not had the opportunity to see you earlier and welcome this little girl when she was born."

"Do not worry, my lady," Arthur says smoothly. "Being a Queen or King is a quite busy life. I understand completely."

Merlin nudges the girl forward, but while she is revealed the little one refuses to let go of her father, her hands forming small fists around his cloak. "May I present Princess Elaine. She was born a little over two years ago."

The Queen bows down to be more at level with the child as she introduces herself, smiling as not to intimidate the girl, for she is still armed and to a two-year-old all that fur and leather may appear frightening. "Hello, little one. I am Queen Annis; you may call me Aunt though."

"Say hello to the nice lady," Merlin murmurs gently.

The girl looks at her for a moment, and then breaks into a toothy grin. Still, she remains too shy or simply determined not to make a sound, though a small giggle escapes her. Arthur looks very pleased indeed. "She appears fond of you already, Annis! She's usually so shy around others."

"Then I am glad. I shall look forward to spending more time with your family, my lord."

"Of course. I am sorry our son isn't here to greet you, but he shall be here shortly; he is having his lessons with our Genealogist, Geoffrey, you see. Now, enough with formalities! A feast will be held tonight for your honour, my lady."

She bows her head. "Thank you. So the Prince is learning his history?"

"Yes, though he seems to itch with want to start his archery lessons…  _I_  remember not being so fond of sitting around books at his age."

"Indeed."

While the lady sounds amused, horror flashes over Merlin's face. "Archery? Whenever did you promise him  _archery_  lessons?! We talked about that  _three days ago_  –"

Abruptly the King goes pale. Ah, no ire like a warlock scorned, or something like that. Merlin isn't doing magic but it's not really necessary in Uther's opinion; he's quite intimidating anyway, eyes burning. "I, um, well I not really  _promised_ ," Arthur stammers (except he doesn't because he's the King and Kings don't stammer). "But he's turning six soon and that's when I started learning using the bow and the sword –"

"Just because you did there's no reason for him to start learning such horrible things so early!" Merlin says firmly. "I don't want our son to learn to kill when he's just a  _child_! For heaven's sake. Arthur!"

The hall is now very, very silent.

By now Arthur is squirming slightly, glancing around the hall as if searching for aid. Alas, the Queen of Carleon is simply staring on amused, a smirk on her face and the guards suddenly look the other way as if trying to avoid getting incinerated, and suddenly no knights are in sight. Uther thinks his son is old enough to handle a squabble on his own, thus he does not step in between the pair; a fight between lovers is only awkward to interrupt. It has nothing to do with the fact that the former King may find the Royal Consort slightly scary now when he's angry, given he's magic and everything.

Well, maybe a little bit.

"Um, Merlin my love, why don't we take this discussion to a more private place?"

The warlock however goes on, relentless and unforgiving: "I know how stubborn you can be – I haven't forgot how you gave him that pony last year as a birthday gift even if I told you not to! Will you ever listen to me, you prat?!"

"Uh …"

"And now you've gone ahead and is letting our boy have archery lessons without even  _telling_  me about it beforehand!?  _This_  is how you wanted me to find it out?"

"Er … I, I can explain …"

"Don't think for a moment that I haven't noticed you sneaking down to the blacksmith lately! What did you order from him? Arthur – don't look away from me!" The King gulps audibly. "What. Did. You. Order. From. Him?!"

Arthur now seems to be physically shrinking, sinking into the floor while the room darkens; the candles and torches flickering by some cold gusts of wind that wraps around every pillar and reaches every crevice in the stone. Long shadows are cast across the floor and Merlin towers above the King in a very dangerous manner, a golden gleam in his eyes.

Uther wonders if perhaps this is the moment he should make it for the door.

"Uh, just, just a new sword –"

"Oh and how convenient it's a dulled, child-sized sword that I found in the toy-box in the nursery this morning now, isn't it?!"

"Y-you saw that?"

"I AM YOUR HUSBAND AND I HAVE MAGIC, OF COURSE I SAW IT!"

 _Right, time to go._ Uther inches toward the door, when suddenly a female voice booms across the hall and stops him.

"Your majesties," the Queen of Carleon cuts in, before any blood can be spilt. (Or at least any bans from the bedchamber can be made.) "I should like to retire to my chambers now. The journey here was long and has wearied me."

Suddenly the room takes up normal dimensions again, and light floods back through the windows. The shadows crawl back, and the wind falls silent. King Arthur sways on the spot slightly. Then he clears his throat, loudly, giving sideway glances at his husband. There's yet an angry shade of red lingering on the dark-haired man's cheeks, and his eyes are still aglow by some inner power.

Uther remains two steps away from the door. Just in case.

" _This isn't over_ ," Merlin whispers dangerously to his husband, before adopting a normal cheerful voice, turning to the Queen with a pleasant smile on his face.

"Of course, my lady. The servants shall show you the way."

Arthur's tongue still seems to be trapped in his throat.

 _Pregnant people can be hazardous! God knows I experienced that during my marriage, but with magic involved, it's even worse!_  Uther thinks, shuddering with horror at the memories of Igraine's tantrums. Luckily those had never been regular or come often; hopefully Merlin's would be the same as hers. Though, he feels some pity for Arthur, especially since there's magic involved.

As the foreign royal entourage makes to turn and walk out of the hall, led by a number of servants to show them to theirs chambers, Uther realizes that this might be his one chance. He's not seen the Queen of Carleon in many days, and he's very curious how she and Arthur got such stable relations between their lands, and why she isn't frowning at the magic being done all-over the city, and lots of other things as well. He especially must ask about his grandchildren – maybe Annis could share some stories regarding them – and the joining of Arthur and Merlin, and lots of other things he still hasn't been given any details about.

"Annis – wait up! I must speak with you."

Turning on her heal, the Queen frowns at him. Right, he hasn't his own face or body – of course she doesn't recognize him. Stupid fate giving him this servantly body!

"Have I met you before, servant boy?" she asks sharply. Her guards and servants flock about her and aim quite dangerous looks at him. But for now Uther cannot bring himself to care, even if those guards are heavily armed and may, if finding him suspicious and a danger to their queen, attack him with their swords. For she just called him a  _boy_. He, Uther Pendragon, former King of Camelot – a boy! And a  _servant_  boy at that! Like he's some insolent brat!

Boy! How dare she call him a  _boy?!_ How utterly outrageous!

"Listen you, I am no  _boy._ I am a  _man_ -"

Naturally Arthur chooses to appear that moment, kingly with his red cloak billowing behind him, Merlin at his side. The warlock gives Queen Annis an apologetic smile. "George is a good servant but can be a bit outspoken, and we apologize if he has bothered you, milady."

"Oh, do not worry, no harm was done," Annis says lightly and not at all as if she five seconds ago had been ready to brandish the knife in her belt. She's always been hasty like that.

All right, Uther admits, addressing her like that wasn't probably a great idea. Nor calling out cross the whole hall where lots of people are and wave his arms to catch her attention. Nor carrying a tray in those arms (because the guards may perceive trays as deadly weapons) and not even calling her by the correct title. Right, so he probably oughtn't have done any of this things, rather seek her out later, in private, to ask about the affairs of the state and how well she knows his son, and how come she's not at all surprised by the magic brooms sweeping the floors right now, et cetera et cetera. Still, all men make rushed mistakes sometimes. He can hardly be blamed!

"I am glad," Arthur says pleasantly. "Will you join us at dinner tonight?"

"Of course," the Queen says. "I do hope you have some entertainment. A juggle would be lovely. I have always held a certain liking to those."

By now the royals have turned their back to the servant (well, not really servant but they don't know that), deeply engrossed in their talk.

"Indeed milady," Merlin says, "I'll make sure one or two is magicked here at once."

"Oh! And there'll be the finest food and we'll make sure there'll be musicians available as well. A troupe just arrived; there's this wonderful fiddler –"

"Hey! LISTEN TO ME!"

Now Uther is starting to get  _really_  frustrated; why does everybody first get angry with him and then ignore him completely?! That is a bad habit which really must be broken at once. "I really need to speak with you, An–  _my Queen._ " He clears his throat. "It's a matter of  _great importance_."

Annis shares a look with Arthur. "Does the servant boy often use this tone as he speaks with nobility?"

"Well, mostly with everybody," the young King says rolling his eyes.

Uther cannot stop the growl from rising in his throat. "I resent that! That is an untrue statement!"

The hall falls silent. Everyone, from guard to noble, turns to look at them. One of the knights of Camelot – that one with ridiculous hair and white teeth that he likes to flash – coughs slightly.

The king-come-servant's face goes red like a tomato's. "Well, er. Yes. I admit, my lord," he says awkwardly, "that I sometimes can be somewhat, to an extent – entirely inadvertently of course! -  _hasty_."

"Yeah, we don't want a repeat of the Dagonet incident," the knight says and causes a few snickers throughout the room.

The blush of humiliation deepens. "THAT WAS A TOTAL ACCIDENT! IT WAS NOT MY FAULT! YOU AS WELL AS I BLOODY WELL KNOW THAT!"

The knight holds his hands up, palms outward as a sign of peace. "Oi, calm down, buddy, calm down!"

"Why don't you, um, run down to the kitchens and help out there for a while?" suggests Merlin softly, and Arthur nods in agreement hastily, not hesitating a moment to approve his husband's advice. For if he doesn't, he may find himself banned from their bed or punished in some other equally horrible way for their earlier argument. "Yes, that is a very fine idea. They are very busy preparing for the feast tonight and could use an extra pair of hands."

Stupid, stupid servant body. Stupid destiny. Nobody listening to him as usual. Stupid –

"Well," the King sends him an impatient look, and Queen Annis raises an elegant eyebrow in the background.  _Curse all these eyebrows!_  Uther thinks bitterly.  _She's just as bad as Gaius. No wonder we always shared such long, pointless arguments._  "What are you standing there waiting for?"


	5. How to Handle Gossiping Knights and Discussions with Queens

During her stay Queen Annis has been given residence in the eastern wing of the castle, Uther can perceive from the talk of the caste staff (though it'd taken some time given the amount of nonsense the servants churn; they  _still_  seem to be unable to not mention the Pregnant Royal Consort at least once a day.)

That wouldn't be much of a problem, if not for the fact that is also the wing were the majority of the knights reside and there are a lot of other soldier and guards nearby. There's no guarantee but Uther has a feeling the Queen might not be that happy about yesterday and have him skewered on a sword or other deadly pointed object. Or at least severely injure him with one of her knives. Going to her right now is a risky business – but one he must undertake nonetheless.

Thus, mentally preparing himself for an attack, he arrives bright in the morning on the doorstep to the royal visitor's chambers and knocks loudly. In his hands rests a tray, hastily plucked from the kitchens, and he wears a perfect mask of indifference: like the perfect servant coming to serve Her Majesty's breakfast. No one spares him a second glance.

"Enter," calls a voice from within.

Right. Uther braces himself and opens the door, grinning wide – perhaps a friendlier, more open-minded manner will put Annis at ease.

"Ah! Annis, it's good to see you. Here, I brought some breakfast. You may think of it as a peace offering."

The queen is dressed in another equally leathery and furry dress today as yesterday, but with fewer weapons at her belt. This is after all a peaceful delegation.

" _You_ ," she says and sighs. "The insolent servant."

An angry grimace ruins any friendly, open-minded smile or other expression previously on Uther's face. The grip on the tray grows tight; his knuckles turning white. "I am not  _insolent_! How dare you—"

"Look, servant boy, I know not what you want, but it seems you only wish for trouble. Get out now before my patience is tried."

"But it's  **important**!"

"Is it vital to the safety of mine or this or any other Kingdom?"

"Er…" Uther pauses, thinks for a moment and then comes to the conclusion: "Not really."

"What about the people in general? Or is it someone in particular?"

"… Not really."

"Then seek an audience with King Arthur for your petty business – speak with one of the councilors! I am sure they'd be very willing to help, indeed," she says and coughs slightly.

Was that  _irony_?

"That's not really it either," Uther says, stubbornly. "It's more of a business of  _inquiry_ ; I have a few questions I believe you are best suited to answer, milady."

She raises an eyebrow. "Let's hear it then."

"Yes, about King Arthur and Merlin; how did-"

Abruptly she silences him, glaring, and her arms go up in a stopping motion. She shakes her head, a most displeased scowl on her face. "I will not discuss such matters with a servant boy! Especially one such as insolent as you-"

"I AM NOT INSOLENT!"

"- For your own best," continues Annis, "I would advise you not to approach me this way again. It may be misread. I believe my soldiers would be most displeased, and they do carry around swords for a cause."

Uther goes pale. They  _wouldn't_!

Wait, maybe. Annis and her people are known for their ruthlessness, soft-hearted or not. He's not looking forward to being hacked to pieces just because some stupid soldier thinks he's about to take advantage or something else of their Queen, when all he wants is to ask a few questions!

What was that anyway, about her reaction with his question, which he'd not even been allowed to finish? He wasn't going to ask anything foul or nasty! Not  _anything_  of the sort. Especially nothing intimate like –

"Oh."

At the sudden revelation, Uther's eyes widens comically.  _Oh_. She thought he'd been about to ask about Arthur's and Merlin's – urhm – private activities which he nor anyone else should have any concerns about. He would  _never_  do such a thing! Never! How could she even  _think_  that?!

Said Queen is still staring him down harshly.

"Er, right. Ah, good day then, my lady." He bows shortly and hastily backs out of the room.

 

 

* * *

One good thing about being a servant – albeit, Uther finds it debatable if it's really a  _good_  thing: after all, he's not exactly pleased with being forced to be a servant, especially one that no one takes seriously – but  _one_  good thing, is that he can slip inside the council chambers through a back-door to observe his son's dealings with the court without anyone paying him any heed.

It's exactly what he's done today, after taking off from Queen Annis' rooms – he needed to be distracted, and avoid her. The best place for a servant to be when they wish to avoid any royal person is by spending time down in the kitchens, were royalty never are, logically. But the kitchens were so stressful and boring and he unequivocally  _loathes_  chopping stupid vegetables! Why can't the cook do it herself?! Stupid vegetables. Stupid cook. Stupid lazy kitchen staff.

On top of it all the servants still haven't shut up: in fact, the confirmation of the baby rumours has made them completely  _insufferable_. For his own sanity's sake Uther had to get away, and fast.

First he'd gone on a walk – it seemed a perfectly good idea at the time. He can inspect the city in more detail and observe the people's mood. Yes, that's a very good idea. Plus he can pass by the market and buy some food – proper  _real_  food, with wine and turkey and grapes, not like that gruel that Gaius stubbornly keeps on serving every day.

But then he had passed by Sir Gwaine (one of those commoner-knights who holds a strong favour for apples and ale), Sir Percival (that tall, strong, usually quiet one who likes going around bare-armed. At least  _this_  knight is an asset to his son's court!) and Sir Leon (another much more trustworthy man and advisor) in a corridor as they were headed for a meeting with King Arthur.

This is an incident which would change Uther's day completely.

Instead of evolving around taxes or other important things that concerns the Kingdom as a whole, the knights' conversation went much more like this:

"I am going to be the godfather this time."

"No – I am!"

"I am!"

"You're not! I should have the honours! First Lancelot, then Percival – it's  _my_  turn!"

"But Gwaine, Leon's been here the longest so logically, it's his turn."

"I'm still their favourite uncle so clearly, I'm the best person out of us at handling children and thus the best candidate!"

"NO!"

"What if it's twins then? We could share, I take one and Leon the other. Or maybe it's more than twins! And think about the next ones that should come, I mean, it's logical at the rate they're at it ("Gwaine!" sir Leon inserts here, face red) and then we'd start distributing it, so that everyone around the Table has got a chance of being godparents! Oooh, that'd be  _awesome_! Those little guys are so cute – imagine if there'd triplets or quadruples!"

(Uther  _really_  wants to have a word with his son about what kind of men he lets be uncles and godfathers of his grandchildren.)

"Do you really believe His Majesty would agree to such an idea?" asks Sir Percival. He sounds surprisingly diplomatic given the size of his biceps.

"Of course! It's a brilliant plan. I mean, the whole idea of the Round Table is about equality and sharing," Sir Gwaine says and gestures widely, obviously quite passionate. "Fairness and fellowship and all that."

For a moment Sir Leon pauses, clearly not coming up with a good response to that. "Er. Yes. Well, that is true…"

"See! Makes perfect sense. So it's my turn."

" _It is not_!"

Even the most loyal Knights of the Kingdom appear to be neglecting their duties – or at least their duty of being  _serious_  when walking down the castle halls where anyone might hear them. And since they aren't doing what ought to be, Uther concludes that the only way for him to get to know how things with Camelot  _really_  are going, on a more political level, is by attending to the council meeting himself.

Despite it's in the form of a servant that everyone thinks is an idiot who likes joking about brass.

 

 

* * *

When entering the council chambers the first thing striking him is, naturally, the Table. Instead of his beloved mahogany piece of furniture, there's this incredibly huge, round table standing at the center of the room and all chairs look the same – even Arthur's despite him being King – except for the names beautifully carved on them. They seem to be sitting in no particular order: there's some Lord next to a Sir and then a couple of Ladies (Women in council! How very strange! Uther's never seen  _anything_  like it) mixed in as well. Some seats don't have titles at all, just simple names, implying that  _commoners_  might be sitting there. Commoners!

 _Hmm, though, the name-tags are quite practical,_ Uther reflects. _I don't have to remember what people's names are and can instead preoccupy my mind with more important facts._

Slightly more of a dozen people are seated around the table, but not all chairs are filled. It's a mix of younger men dressed in chainmail with large red cloaks draped over their shoulders, undoubtedly knights, and people of both genders wearing odd-looking robes with an alarming magical look about them, and elderly men (mainly with silvery beards) that can only be steady, reliable councilors. Gaius is also present, as well as an elderly woman with a braid down her back sitting right next to her.

To his horror, Queen Annis is there as well, like the honored visitor she is. She sees him enter out of the corner of her eye and raises an eyebrow just so slightly. Uther flushes and hastily retreats – err, moves out of her line of sight. But surprisingly she does not stand up or speak, does not loudly demand his removal from the chamber or anything else as drastic, something which is relieving. If she had, this whole plan would've turned upside-down.

On Arthur's right, Merlin is sitting. At the moment the King is smiling lovingly at his Consort and the warlock looks very content, one hand resting on the bulge of his stomach.

 _Indeed it's rather large a bulge … He's not **that**  far along, so maybe there lies some truth in sir Gwaine's hopes of twins,_ Uther thinks briefly and can't help but feel rather excited about the idea himself – of course he swiftly dismisses this, he has more important things to focus on right now than grandchildren.

Yes. Honestly. He must  _focus_  now. No giddy excitement … Even if the wee ones are so adora—

No, no,  **focus**!

He finds a quiet corner near one of the large pillars, from which he can observe the room; apart from the council, there are also a few guards nearby, standing by the doors. No one bats an eye at him, not finding it odd to have a servant there. For possibly the first time ever Uther feels (slightly) grateful for being in this unfortunate body.

The warlock's other hand is entwined with his husband's. They are staring intensely at one another, conversing softly almost as if they were having a private moment and weren't being watched by half the council. A few of them can't hide their smiles or open looks of adoration, much to Uther's annoyance.

Uther recognizes one of the robed men as Gilli, who is both a court sorcerer and some kind of servant of Merlin's, but the man almost exclusively uses magic to do his chores so he spends most of his time accompanying the Royal Consort like a bodyguard instead of like an actual servant. He's seen the two walk in the gardens many times enough to know. Uther finds this slightly unnerving; for his son's spouse to be alone with a man like that …

Fortunately the two seem to a have a completely platonic friendship. Fortunately - because if anyone ever dares to act  _too_  close to his son-in-law Uther would wring their neck, swiftly and without hesitation. Of course, Uther would never admit this out loud. People would start thinking he was growing soft or getting attached to the boy or something – which he  _isn't_!

On Arthur's left sits sir Lancelot. Sir Leon takes seat next to Merlin, Sir Percival across the table and Sir Gwaine – well, he seems to have wandered off for a while. Uther scowls: how very unmannered! This  _is_  the King's court – one simply must be on time!

Said man comes barging in fifteen minutes later chewing on a green apple, exclaiming: "Sorry I'm late, sires, I had to get a snack first." He seems entirely unprepared as well, taking no notes with him unlike many of the others, who are now reading through notes from previous meetings – keeping themselves properly up-to-date - and mumbling among themselves.

King Arthur accepts the apology with a roll of eyes and a comment of, "As long as there's no pouches of ale hidden on your belt," causing the whole room to rumble with laughter, and Uther wonders how much of a daily occurrence this is.

The knight takes seat with a glamorous flicker of his hair. "So what's on the agenda today, milord?"

"The scouts returned earlier this morning," Arthur says and immediately a grave shadow falls over the council. Uther frowns darkly. Why hasn't he been told anything of this earlier?!

Then he remembers – he's not King anymore, that's why. Argh, stupid destiny reincarnating him as a servant that won't be told important things beforehand!

"The rumours are true: Vortigern has allied with King Lot and they are assembling an army in the north. Queen Annis, our loyal ally, have just informed us of this."

"Hmpf. No surprises there."  _Lot was always a gullible fool and Vortigern always knew how to pick his allies ... regrettably, for us anyway,_ Uther muses _. Hasn't he been hiding for like twelve, thirteen years up in a cave somewhere? Probably. The coward. Oh, why's he still around and I'm not? (Well sort of not.) How very **unfair**!_

All heads swirl toward the servant standing in the corner of the room. Uther stares back unwaveringly. Arthur sends him an inquiring gaze which is very odd to be at the receiving end off; before it was always the other way around.

"Do you have anything to say, George? I cannot recall you being invited to this meeting."

Merlin subtly (or maybe not, since Uther can clearly see it, the table in the way) elbows his husband's side. "Do not act like such a prat, Arthur," he hisses on his breath, and then addresses George – err, Uther – and the former King is surprised at how … royal and confident the former servant sounds, as if there really was noble blood in his veins and he wasn't born a peasant. "Please explain, George; you are allowed to speak."

Uther clears his throat. "King Lot is terribly naive. Clearly Vortigern has his own devices and is going to betray him in the end, without sharing whatever profit he thinks he'll make. It's all a very obvious plan."

Many eyebrows rise at the servant's mysterious, sudden wisdom. Displeased at their reaction Uther frowns back at them: why do they have to look so surprised? Have they never heard a servant sprout words of perception before?

There goes Annis again, scowling at him in that disturbing manner as if he were some misbehaving child! Curling his lip, Uther glares back.

"Sire, I must say George has a point," Geoffrey of Monmouth (a very dependable man that Uther is happy to see is present. Or maybe not because now the old bat is ancient, nearing his first century now, just like Gaius and the two still sticks around so stubbornly; how unfair!) says thoughtfully. "Perhaps we could send a delegation to Lot's court and convince him of this thus have him on our side, and at least partly eliminate the threat? Sires, what are your opinions?"

"And if he doesn't listen we could always send a wyvern or two on him," adds sir Gwaine with a grin.

"Gwaine!" exclaims Merlin sounding upset (though Uther cannot fathom why, unless he's displeased with the knight's blatant wording which Uther would be as well: the man does not chose his words at  _all_  like a knight should!). "I won't abuse my power like that!"

"Not abuse;  _benefit_  rather, my Lord Emrys," answers the knight smugly.

Abruptly Uther chokes, and quickly fakes a small cough attack to hide his shock from the curious glances he receives.

 _Emrys_?!

He's not ignorant; he's heard about the prophecies and feared them for a long, long time. He'd made sure to burn every book and every person mentioning those damn prophecies - yes, he'd fought it with all of his might, feeling secure that they wouldn't come to pass if nobody thought of them anymore. But now …

Magic is back; Arthur is a King that is warmly spoken of and has put a lot of land under himself, and he has a Warlock at his side – ruling together with Magic … Just like the prophecy said the Once and Future King one day would …

_Well …_

_That explains a whole damn lot._

"While we should not take such drastic measures at once, the idea itself is not terribly bad," admits Arthur, a pondering look on his face.

One of his hands is resting lightly on Merlin's arm and Uther has had enough time to get used to these common open displays of affection that he's not surprised. Still, it's not  _appropriate_ and also quite distracting for the rest of the men and women (perhaps  _mostly_  the women) sitting at the table. Surely Arthur must realize this?

Uther needs to have a word with him as-soon-as-possible about proper court behaviour.

"Vortigen must have heard rumours of Kilgarrah and Aithusa, but he has not actually  _seen_  them yet. They are a very viable threat and we must make him aware of this," continues the young King.

"I agree wholeheartedly, sire," says (Uther glances at the name etched on the back of the chair) Sir Kay.

"I am not certain it would actually deter him or Lot from attacking, sire," says one of the councilors hesitantly. He is … vaguely familiar. He's sitting on the far side of the table so Uther can't see the name on the back of his chair. Moving a bit to the side to get a better look at the man, Uther scrutinizes him with sharp narrowed eyes: dark cloak, gloves, no beard, slicked back dark hair … just  _where_  had he seen him before?

"You must remember the last time he attacked Camelot," the man continues. "What if he has leagued with sorcerers wielding dark magic?"

"We have sorcerers of our own," Arthur says firmly, casting a protective and proud glance at his husband who looks entirely calm. Obviously the young King notices something about him that's upsetting him that Uther don't or maybe can't see, because Arthur starts rolling his thumb in soothing circles on the back of his lover's hand.

"But they're untrained and weak!" whines the councilor.

 _Whines_! Like a child! Oh, Uther would  _never_  tolerate this in  _his_  council.

(Gilli glares at the councilor, most offended.)

And worse still, the man continues in the same aggravating tone: "The druids will not do violence; they would offer us no aid. The few sorcerers in Camelot who could actually fight are weak and petty. Meanwhile the only person who  _might_  have  _some_  kind of chance defending Camelot from magical attacks has been busy keeping the King's bed warm instead of-"

He's not allowed to finish the sentence, and perhaps he should be thankful for that.

Within a second Arthur is on his feet: eyes ablaze, his voice is rough and low and calm but underneath the surface there's a storm raging, wild and uncontrollable. On instinct, when seeing that look on his son's face – it's almost terrifying, the sheer  _intensity_  of it – Uther takes a step forward as if to run up and soothe him. He barely stops himself in time; a servant can't just run to the King's side like that! Especially not when said King is armed with a sword and looks very, very ready to wield it.

Several others around the table, mainly knights, have done the same and Sir Leon's hand is very dangerously close to his sword.

"You will address my husband as you do me, as your  **King**. If I hear you speak ill a  _single_  time about him, I  **will**  have you banned from this Table and Camelot itself. Do I make myself clear?"

The man blanches, but remains silent. Arthur looks completely murderous. His knights are quiet and tense; even Queen Annis gives the man a warning glare, one which could have weakened anyone feeble-minded.

"Do I make myself clear, Lord Agravaine?"

Uther's eyes go as wide as saucers.  _Agravaine!? Oh crap, what's he doing here? Hasn't Arthur read the reports about when I banned him twenty-five years ago because of his sneaky ways? Oh, I should have warned him! I need to have a word with Geoffrey about keeping the current King up-to-date!_

"Yes, sire, I understand perfectly. I apologize sincerely. It was a foolish thing to say." The man rises from his chair to bow to the King, hesitating far too long before giving Merlin a small bow as well.

"Indeed it was," growls Uther. Again everyone looks at him. Now he ignores them: he catches Agravaine's gaze, holding it firmly. As much as he's not that comfortable around the warlock, or when his son shows the boy affection in front of the whole court, still: he  _is_  his son-in-law. How dare Agravaine say such things about the Pendragon family and in the middle of council no less? Where is his sense of respect, where is the man's honour?

"You should choose your words less foolishly,  _Lord_  Agravaine." Were it not for the fine oak floor that would take damage at such an action and the sake of his own dignity, he'd have stepped up and spat at the man's feet. If only he'd had his true face and voice at this moment!  _That_  would've shut Agravaine up.

"It's all right," Merlin cuts in, smoothly but there's a slight upset tremble to the edge of his voice that Uther doesn't quite like and evidently neither does Arthur, the King reaching out to grab his Consort's hand. Agravaine turns his ashen face to stare at the warlock in something alike astonishment. "I accept your apology, Lord Agravaine."

Arthur turns to the men who have remained standing, and they all look furious like wolves that are just about to pounce. "Gentlemen, please sit down."

Reluctantly they snap into motion, sitting stiffly. It doesn't go unnoticed to anybody how sir Gwaine places his bare sword across his knees or that sir Percival lets his hand rest on the handle of his weapon.

Unsurprisingly, Agravaine remains silent like a mouse for the remainder of the meeting.

 

 

* * *

The subject of the meeting changes over the next few hours from dragon hatchlings (there's a rumour of a dragon egg, a different one, having been found someplace south) to taxes (finally a sensible subject into which Uther can dive with passion and fervor!), and back to the original topic of a possible attack in the near future.

Apparently Vortigern's army isn't that strong number-wise and that's the reason he's allied with Lot. Still, Camelot outnumbers them both greatly. The risk is that both Kings have powerful sorcerers at their court. And while Merlin possesses some almighty powers (at least according to everyone at the table – Uther hasn't seen the boy actually do anything but a few tricks, and talk to those annoying dragons) and is backed up by several sorcerers, witches and warlocks at court and a large number of druids, there's the issue of Arthur (understandably) refusing to let Merlin participate in any kind of battle while pregnant.

Well, Uther is rather sure Arthur would protest to Merlin taking part in a fight no matter if he were pregnant or not; still, the warlock is carrying the King's child. To allow him to fight would be foolish indeed, Uther agrees.

This somehow leads to the topic of babies and names and – oh, godfathers.

"I propose that Gaius should have the honour," says sir Kay and receives many approving murmurs.

"But he's already grandpa!" exclaims someone else. Uther rolls his eyes when recognizing that the voice belongs to sir Gwaine. "Logically, someone else, for example  _me_ , is more befitting the role of -"

Suddenly, Merlin lets out a gasp as his hands fly to his stomach, cutting the man off in mid-sentence. "Oh!"

Arthur immediately springs into action and is at the warlock's side within two seconds. Everyone at the table stills, fear suddenly filling their eyes (with the exception of Agravaine) and silence falls upon them. A few start coming to their feet, including Gaius, who goes into fully alert worried-physician-mode.

"Merlin!"

The guards, having noticed the King's sudden distress, abandon their posts by the doors and rushes up the royal couple. Uther also inches closer, curious and at the same time fearful; it  _is_  his grandchild resting inside the warlock's womb after all.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Arthur's face is filled with concern, eyes darkened with worry, and the knights hover by the edge of the blanket nervously, ready to fulfill any orders the King might give. "Merlin?!"

"No. No, I'm fine," the warlock assures him with a smile, relaxing. He takes Arthur's hand and guides it to his rounded belly. "The baby just kicked."

The knights release a collective sigh of relief, and return to their posts, and Uther doesn't miss the excited murmurs they share. Do  _everyone_  in this damn castle gossip? He thought the knights and  _councilors_  at least had enough common sense not to do such a thing, not on a council meeting when more important things should be discussed – like the possible attack from another kingdom! Have they  _no_  sense of what to prioritize?!

Albeit Uther admits to himself, he has this strange urge to walk up to the pair and demand to be allowed to feel the warlock's stomach and greet his grandchild.

But. He's George now, not Uther Pendragon, and he's receiving enough odd looks as it is. But … the temptation is so great … so, so great, his skin itches and his hands twitch impatiently.

Ugh, must resist .. _. must resist ..._

Geoffrey is furiously scribbling in his notebook. Probably putting a date and time to the precise moment when the next Pendragon made it first movements. That is after all a very important duty when you're the Royal Historian and Genealogist.

Uther bites his lip. He shouldn't – he can't – no,  _no_  demanding. Not now. Not yet. It's not appropriate. Maybe later. He could blame it on being an odd whim; a sudden indulgence; George the Servant is after all an idiot. So people might not take offense or find it too strange, after all.

"Oh," Arthur gasps in wonder, then slight disappointment, a frown creasing his forehead as he presses his palm against Merlin's stomach. "I can't feel anything."

"They don't kick on command, you dollophead," the warlock says with a warm chuckle, his whole face glowing as he smiles.

Meanwhile sir Gwaine tries imitating a puppy which is  _incredibly_  un-knightly. "Can I feel it? Please?"

"No!" barks the King sending him a glare. "You were late for this meeting; you will  _not_  have any kind of rewards for that."

"But I gave you the epic idea to show Aithusa to Vortigern and frighten his pants off-"

"I said  **no**!"

Merlin sighs and strokes his husband's arm. This calms the King down a bit and the man sinks back to his seat. Though one of his hands lingers on the warlock's stomach, just in case the baby decides to make itself known again. "Let us go back to the meeting."

 

 

* * *

Just as he's about to leave, an hour later as the meeting ends, the Queen of Carleon stops Uther by the wide doors, flanked by two guards with enormous arms - they could probably crush him without breaking a sweat. Any other servant would grow slightly worried at being neared by such company, but Uther is not any other servant, so he raises an eyebrow slightly indicating his head, without a word signaling (with some annoyance) 'What do you want?'

"I may have been at fault with you," Annis says without ado. "Let us agree to be on better terms with each other."

"I agree wholeheartedly, my lady," Uther says, and then - dignity be damned! – he bows to her. That seems to please her a little bit. A small smile rests on her lips.

"Then we are at peace. You managed to convince me, hard as it seems to believe, during the council. Of course, many servants are wise, but not many are yet as brazen as you."

Uther clears his throat, unsure whether that's a compliment or an insult. It may very well be the latter, wrapped up in some pretty package to lure him into a false sense of security. However, the guards don't step up to wring his neck when he replies; "Well, you are rather fierce yourself, my lady." (Which could also be taken either way.)

"Indeed. I believe I would enjoy hearing more of you, may it be so you only sprout wisdom once in a while and act boisterously the rest of the time, I think there is more than what the eye tells."

The former King feels a flush work up his neck. " _Boisterously_?!"

"If you would just keep your tone down and have your tantrums come less often, I believe people would find you a lot more agreeable," Annis says good-naturedly. "'Tis a pity your fuse is so short, otherwise I would suggest you come into my service. I haven't had a good jester working for me since Tauren. He was especially good at juggling."

Uther nods agreeably, then, as the words register, he abruptly stares at her wide-eyed, and his face goes dark. "Jester!? _I_?  **Never**!"

_How dare she … ?!_

_How dare she?!_

"I AM NOT SOME FOOL TO BE MADE FUN OF! I WAS ONCE ONE OF THE GREATEST MEN TO WALK THIS EARTH! I AM NOT SOME…SOME…COMEDIAN TO ENTERTAIN ANY COURT!"

The Queen sighs quietly to herself in resignation, and one of the guards murmur; "I fear he'd scare off any guests, milady."

 

 

* * *

The second time he's caught in a similar manner – except there are no guards, only a large magic sword at the belt of the man addressing him – Uther is trying to flee; no! not  _flee_ , just sneak inconspicuously away from the kitchens. The cook had deemed him useless when he'd nearly cut off his own fingers when preparing the onions, and chased him out of the smoky room with a ladle.

So he ended up here, in a relatively empty corridor, along which many sacks and barrels have been stacked there. His shoes are filled with dry grain, his feet itching horribly. But he dares not move to get rid of the itch, in case the cook picks up his trail. Alas! That this would be his doom – a plump lady armed with a wooden spoon!

On high alert, looking out for the fearsome woman, Uther then jumps when the voice reaches him. Or tries to, but bumps his head into the rounded wall of wood surrounding him.

"George, can I have a word with you? – And may I ask whatever are you hiding in this barrel for?"

"Certainly, son," Uther says pleasantly; finally has his son decided to speak to him directly and not like he's a fool! Then, he remembers. "I mean -  _sire_."

Arthur doesn't comment on the slip, perhaps not noticing it, as oblivious as he sometimes (unfortunately) can be. He clears his throat, and awkwardly, Uther climbs out of the barrel, grain spilling everywhere.

"Um, I was. Checking the stores, you see, sire," he improvises quickly. "Because – yes Gaius, he told me they needed. Checking. Indeed, yes, that is it."

The young King nods, accepting it (albeit with a slight furrow to his brow). Then again, Camelot contains a number of curious figures, George being one of them, and the servant could hardly harm a soul through his weird behaviour.

"Never mind the barrel. I have been searching for you for some time since the meeting. Your actions at council earlier today were …  _startling_ , to say the least, but not unwelcome. You expressed a sudden wisdom I certainly did not expect."

_Here we go again; he will surely call me a fool, then wish me good luck and wonder off leaving me some riddle to solve or another … My own son! Ai, what is this unfair world?_

"I would not mind your presence at the council in the future," Arthur continues, oblivious to the King-come-servant's inner turmoil. "In fact I believe the Table agrees with me."

That catches Uther off-guard. "The Table … agrees?" he asks dumbly. Because tables. Do not agree.

No, tables are tables and they stand quiet and do what they're supposed to do, i.e. being tables, not agreeing to people. How can an inanimate object agree to something? First off, it can't talk, telepathically or verbally or in any other manner. So how could they ever  _agree_ with anybody?!

"Yes," the King replies with a nod as if there's nothing strange with standing in a corridor talking to a servant covered in grain and telling him that tables henceforth make arguments. "Your name just appeared on one of the empty chairs."

"My name just app— _Oh_." Uther nearly rolls his eyes at his own obliviousness. " _Magic._  Naturally."

"Of course the Table is magic!" Arthur says good-naturedly and sends him a perplexed, somewhat amused look. "Actually, Kilgarrah gave me the advice to make it so and Merlin wove the enchantments when we first got our hands of the Table. Anyway, do you protest to this new duty, George? Your pay will be raised of course, and I shall speak with the Chief of Staff immediately so to arrange a more fitting schedule."

There's that name 'Kilgarrah' again… Wherever has he heard it before? Never mind, he can investigate the matter later; perhaps he could inquire Geoffrey about it. That is, if the old man yet has forgiven him for his demanding attitude upon the night he arrived.

"…Not at all! Sire. I certainly find it most adequate," Uther responds, very pleased indeed. Even if the Table is magic and the chairs are most probably magic and the Table makes decisions on its own.  _Finally_  someone is realizing that he is more than just a servant and deserves better than being treated so! This also gives him the perfect opportunity to keep a better eye on his son and son-in-law and that fuzzy 'destiny' thing that the bloody dragon wants him to fulfill.

"Excellent. Now, why don't you join my family and I as we dine tonight? Queen Annis shall be there as well, naturally. It shall be a quiet thing … though I still need to find that juggle for Annis … Please do not refuse out of politeness; there'll be the finest wine and venison. You may eat as much as you like."

Indubitably Uther could never refuse such an offer, especially if there's wine and venison to be had. This might give him an opportunity to have a civilized word with both his son and Queen Annis, perhaps even his son-in-law – how strange it feels to think it! Son-in-law! He'd  _never_  have thought …

"I accept, sire."

"Excellent! Go have a wash and make sure to be in the Hall at seven o'clock."


	6. How to Handle Family Dinners and Bickering Dragons

Dinner is, as opposed to the council meeting a few hours earlier, a much more pleasant affair. The whole family's gathered with the clear exception of Arthur's uncle Agravaine who's probably sitting in one of the guest chambers sulking right now.

Uther is very glad about that. The aggravating man clearly deserves not being allowed to partake in the family gathering. Uther's never liked him anyway; the man had always been so ...  _sleek,_ full of sweet words but few convincing actions.

In addition, Queen Annis is present. She shares a warm conversation with Merlin when Uther enters the room; when seeing him, she frowns a bit, but Merlin quickly draws her attention back (another relief; her sharp eyes pinning him down can be quite unsettling).

The venison and deeply red wine (imported from Mercia) looks so, so tempting since Uther's had watery porridge for three days in a row and not even a sip of wine in a week – a  _week_! – and he remains just staring at it for a good whole fifteen minutes before Merlin notices.

"Please eat your fill, George," the warlock says pleasantly. "There's plenty of food, enough to feed a garrison to be honest."

At once the young King is upon the warlock with worried eyes. "Are  _you_  eating enough, my love? You are eating for two now, you know. Here, have another few plums."

" _Yes_ , Arthur," Merlin answers dutifully, unable to hide his smile and roll of eyes, and accepts the fruits.

"Where's Guinevere and Lancelot?" asks Arthur, while trying (and failing miserably) to feed the Princess some vegetable and mushroom mush – they've been trying to feed her other things than milk since the start of this week, but so far only Merlin had had some success in getting more food  _in_  her mouth rather than down the front of her dress.

"They couldn't come, I'm afraid. Lancelot had planned a dinner just for the two of them …"

Arthur's eyes widen in realization. "Ah."

Merlin answers with a grin; "I told Gwen it was all right and that she should enjoy herself fully. They've not seen each for a while, I mean, with the patrol to the Northern borders that Lancelot recently was on."

"Of course."

At that moment, the little girl starts wailing as another spoonful of vegetable mush is presented to her, small eyes scrunching up as she lets out a heartbreaking cry. Wildly she tries reaching over the table toward her other parent.

"Oh, Arthur, give me her," Merlin says and opens his arms and the girl doesn't quiet until she's settled, expectantly clinging to the warlock, and the shrill attack on their eardrums finally stops. Then he opens his shirt, wholly unconcerned with the fact that both Uther (err, George) and a handful of guards are present, and the child begins to suckle hungrily.

Uther noisily chokes on the wine. Queen Annis raises an elegant eyebrow in his direction.

"There, that's better." The warlock looks content and peaceful and not at all as if the recently King-come-servant is struggling not to suffocate three feet away.

None of the guards seem to react in any special manner either, except a couple of them politely avert their eyes (Arthur looks around the room rather possessively to make sure there's no outright staring being done) but still, there's no shouting or running around and Arthur doesn't yell at them ordering them to leave the room now when his royal consort is doing something so ... so  _private_.

"She's a greedy little thing," Arthur remarks, gazing at his husband in a manner which makes Uther squirm in his chair.

"Well, she must've inherited  _something_  from you."

Uther squirms some more. Seeing his son so openly flirt with the warlock, married or not, isn't his favourite pastime. And to nurse the child right in front of the guards, just like that ...! No fine lady (never mind that the Royal Consort isn't really a lady at all) would ever do such a thing, her husband would never allow it; how can Arthur just sit there and let the warlock … in front of the guards and a royal guest?!

Queen Annis acts as if this is normal; as if she has attended to dinners like this, where the royal consort suddenly starts nursing his baby right in front of everyone without a concern in the world. In fact she is capable of keeping conversation going without pause: she turns to Merlin and soon they are engaged in talking about strategies on employing magic in a royal household, and other things that Uther doesn't quite catch on.

Maybe this was really a bad idea and he should have refused the offer. Even if that'd mean he'd be forced to eat leftovers down in the kitchens again, in the heat and smoke and smell, with the gossiping kitchen staff giggling all around him. Even Gaius' porridge would've been bearable - yes, such torture would've been more bearable than  _this_!

But, he said yes and he's sitting here now. Arthur is King and to leave would be to insult him, badly so. That is not a thing that Uther has been raised to do, no, no. To insult a King to whose table you've been invited would be very unwise. He must endure.

Yes. Endure. Calm breaths. In and out. Calm breaths...

"Does that mean she's going to be a dollophead?" asks Prince James curiously and suddenly. "Because she's like papa?"

"Err, not quite, sweetheart," Merlin hurries to say and Queen Annis smirks. "Only certain people can become dollopheads."

"Oh, good," the little Prince says sounding pleased. "Because I only want there to be one dollophead and that's my papa."

The guards immediately adopt expressions as if they've just eaten loads of sweets and they exclaim: "Awww!" in choir.

 _Damn this, I should have said no,_  Uther thinks angrily.  _Now the guards are starting it too!_

* * *

When he arrives – a bit early, as is polite to do – to the Round Table next morning for council, he finds the empty chair. And as Arthur had said, indeed there's been a name carved into it, as if by magic. The text at back of the chair says in bold engraved letters:

**GEORGE THE SERVANT**

George the Servant. Not "Formerly King of Camelot", no, not a glimpse of "Uther" or "Pendragon" or any combination thereof there, no. It doesn't even say plainly "George" (Uther  _despises_  that name by now but it's better than the epithet Servant), but no, it says  _George the Servant._

"I miss my throne," Uther mutters on his breath, "and my pretty crown and the glamour and the free access to wine. The chair could at least have said 'the Magnificent'."

Much to his annoyance, a dragon answers in his head;  _"It is your **destiny** , George. Now bloody sit down on that chair and stop complaining."_

Not the dragon again!

" _Stop telling me what to do! And will you stop calling me 'George'! I WAS THE KING OF CAMELOT AND YOU SHALL ADDRESS ME AS SUCH!"_

" _Very humble, as always, your highness,"_ the dragon snorts.  _"We need to meet again soon, face-to-face. Frankly it's not that pleasant yelling to one another in our heads, plus Kilgarrah is looking at me oddly again … I think he suspects something."_

* * *

Indeed, not far away, in a large cave which has been carved and decorated for the dragons' comfort thanks to a powerful Dragonlord, one of the white magic creatures is curled up, looking innocently at the sky. However its companion, a much larger golden-green dragon, is not fooled by this, staring at it with huge yellow eyes.

"What are you up to, hatchling?"

"I am no hatchling, old one! And I am up to nothing, simply staring at the sky, pondering, thinking…"

"About?" the older dragon presses impatiently.

"Oh, you know – ordinary things – like…like …" Almost fearing it to be futile, the white dragon searches for a commonsensical reply.

The green dragon smirks. "Yes? Do go on."

"…like coins!"

"Whatever you are up to, I hope it is for the good of us all. I do have my fears when it comes to you, given you are just an immature hatchling."

"Oh, trust me, it is," the white dragon says smugly but frowns at its companion when hearing the end of its sentence. "But I am  **not**  a hatchling!" Tendrils of smoke escapes the dragon's nostrils and its tail swishes back and forth. "I am nearly six years old!"

"As I said, hatchling, I have my fears when it comes to you."

* * *

Reports reaches the city of Camelot the next day that some farmers in the outlying villagers had spotted what looked like a forest fire starting all of a sudden; or perhaps a mountain erupting fire and heat, with large clouds of dark smoke darkening the sky and tall flames reaching up, as there were loud rumbling and thundering sounds.

The creatures are not calmed until Merlin assures them that the dragons were just having an argument again and it's nothing to worry about, and that he is going to have a word with them immediately.

Inevitably this is also how Uther finds out that his son-in-law is the last Dragonlord. However he has little energy left to feel surprised, and then he is tripped in a corridor by a magically sweeping broom and proceeds to chase it down the castle and break it to pieces.

(The magic broom of course just heals itself and keeps sweeping, it's part of its properties as foreseen by various Druids to be a useful ability to give them.)

Because of that distraction he does not realize that Merlin's father must then have been his old friend-turned-enemy Balinor until many hours later, when he's about to retire for the night, one boot half-way pulled off his left foot. And upon realizing this, Uther gasps and sits up straight in shock, and one startled thought makes its way through his head:

…  _So this means that Arthur never slayed that dragon that attacked Camelot! Which means … the dragon is **stillout there**! And … and Merlin's in control of it! And it might even be the same one that the villagers saw!_

_That means, together with the dragon that keeps talking to me...there are **two**  dragons! What if there are more? And does Merlin have control of those too? Wherever did that second dragon come from anyway?!_

…

_THIS MAKES NO SENSE! I PURGED THE LAND FROM THE DRAGONS TWENTY-SIX YEARS AGO!_

…

_Except the one beneath the castle: the example which everyone forgot until some idiot went to free it, and later everyone thought Arthur slew it, while in reality he didn't. Really, I should've killed the dragon off at once, not chain it beneath the castle, when I had the chance!_

_And then there's the dragon egg which must've remained hidden for some time – right under my nose – and oh, oh god, **my son is married to a Dragonlord!**_

…

Then again, given what else he'd experienced in the last week, this is not that much of a revelation when he thinks about it. After a couple of minutes of strenuous thought he realizes this, and his shoulders sag visibly. All right, so his son-in-law is a Dragonlord. Apparently there's more than one dragon out there roaming near Camelot and the city is full of enchanted brooms and he's going to be a grandpa soon again.

Really, he shouldn't be surprised at all and not make a big deal out of this.

He shakes his head to clear it and pulls off the left boot and then the right one, crawling into bed with a frustrated sigh.

… _Oh, I'll never get a good night's sleep in this place!_


	7. How to Handle the Most Sudden of Events

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _It's been too long since I wrote anything for this fic, so I thought I'd better get on it. A very Happy New Year, everyone!_

Morning dawns upon Camelot and Uther gets back just in time to hurry up to the King's private dining hall with breakfast. As it turns out the whole family shares that meal today and a handful of other servants have already prepared everything when Uther, in form of George, turns up with His Majesty's tray.

Uther hopes then that he'll be sent off so he can't get some sleep. By Heaven he needs it; but Arthur demands him to sit down and eat with them. It's a King's order so he can't refuse – reluctantly (well in truth, perhaps not so) he takes seat. The servants don't just stand in the corner like faceless statues, but every one of them take their leave except one – Uther struggles to care to recall her name (Sophie, Stephanie, no, Sefa …? Yes, that's right.) – is also welcomed to join on the Consort's insistence. There's a mention of her fine service, or something, therefore she shouldn't have to be dismissed with her stomach empty.

Gilli, the sorcerer, is also there – Uther fights his instincts yet again to sit still and not leap out and reach for a sword as the man joins in. He lets his plate and cup be filled by magic rather than by hand, eyes golden, and no one reacts – not even the children, other than to laugh and beg for him to do some lighting trick!  _Is this an everyday occurrence?_  Uther wonders, bewildered.

But the food smells utterly heavenly and he lets himself be distracted by it. There's sausage and bacon right from the frying pan and two types of bread, cheese, and milk for the young ones. There are also fruits of various sorts, some of which that, as far as Uther knows, shouldn't be there since they're exotic or do not grow this time of of year – but it's probably magic. He hesitates to taste them. What if the spell used to make them spring from the ground is lingering and will affect him in some manner? Nay, much safer to avoid them.

The rest of the family does not; they eat everything without fear, and there's a lot of laughter and talking and food-spilling and it's all a bit of chaos, really. The young Princess spills sweet porridge down her dress front twice, but no one seems angry, merely bemused, and Arthur sighs theatrically as he wipes her small chin.

"Thought I'd be used to taking take of messes by now," he comments, causing the servant girl to smile (Uther also unwillingly finds his mouth twitching in bemusement), and Merlin laughs.

"Wait a few months," the warlock says, a hand on his belly, "then we'll talk about messes!"

 

* * *

Later, at dinner, Uther finds himself yet again invited to the table. He wonders if it is Fate playing tricks, or perhaps taking some weird pity on him, and allowing him to be so near his son and family and yet so far away from them, unable to reveal his true self. Yet, he's relieved and happy. This way it's much easier to keep an eye on Arthur. And the children are a joy to behold, truly, even if the thought hits him now and then that  _Oh god they're born of magic! And Arthur's their FATHER!_ and shocks him like a strike of lightning. Part of him still can't believe it (or other little details of his newborn existence, such as magic, and dragons, and Gaius still being in possession of his Eyebrow, and not being dead).

"Father, mother, there's someone I want you to meet," Prince James happily announces in the middle of a bite. He sounds exceedingly proud for a four year old.

"Oh? Have you found a new friend?" Arthur asks. There's no missing the concerned shadow on his face though, and he exchanges a look with his husband. Uther frowns also, seeing their reactions of worry.

Oblivious and happy the little Prince bounces on his seat. "Yes!"

"And where is this friend now?"

"He's waiting in the courtyard! I told him to wait there, cause there's Old Mary and John selling turnips, they're nice and I asked them to let him stay with them for a bit cause there was no one else and I didn't want him to wander off and get lost! Can I fetch him? Please, Pa!"

The parents share a worried look. Merlin turns to his son and says in a firm and serious yet soft tone, "James, remember the talk we had about talking to strangers …"

The boy wrinkles his nose in disagreement. "Col's real nice! I like him!  _Please_  let me fetch him?" He turns to them armed with large blue innocent eyes; a weapon more dangerous than the sharpest of swords.

And unable not to, the warlock gives in, sighing and holding out his hand which the boy takes, tugging on it eagerly already half-way out of his seat. "All right. I'll come with you though."

"Are you sure? I could—" Arthur cuts in and begins to stand, but the warlock shakes his head.

"You have to see to Queen Annis; you planned that walk around the city today remember and talk about renewing that treaty? Don't worry, we'll be fine. We'll be back in a minute. George and Gilli will come with us."

Uther makes a strangled sound at the back of throat. He's not even finished the ham yet! "I will? With  _him_?" The sorcerer seated across the table sends him an odd, a bit frosty look. "… I mean, of course, I will, yes. Err, sire."

 

* * *

Prince James bounces up and down with excitement as he pulls out something or rather some _one_ that's been huddling behind his back trying to make himself as small as possible.

The boy – looking to be about James' age or maybe a bit younger – has a mop of dark tousled hair and very large, scared eyes staring up at the warlock-consort as he clings to the Prince's arm silently. Both his hands, and his bare dirty feet are marred, and his clothes have definitely seen better days; the poor thing is so very thin and looks like he's not had a bath for weeks. He's as skittish as a newborn colt. Merlin's heart goes out to him at once.

The royal consort kneels before him, speaking softly. "Hello, little one. What's your name?"

For a moment the boy remains quiet and stiff, like rooted to the ground with fear, but then Prince James nudges his side and says, "It's all right, that's my mom."

Nervously the boy's gaze flickers, seeking out the Prince's as if for approval. James looks very happy and proud; he nods.

"I'm … I'm C-Colin," the child says. He speaks with a thick decidedly northern accent that Merlin has only rarely heard; there are some travelers or traders coming to Camelot sometimes who speak like that though. Maybe the boy's parents are visitors of the city?

"It's very nice meeting you, Colin," Merlin answers with a smile, remaining kneeling as to not intimidate the boy. He's glad he told the guards not to linger too close; that surely would have frightened the boy away, or would have if not for James' steady presence. "Do you live in Camelot?"

The boy nods hesitantly.

"Are your parents or family here, in the city?"

Sudden tears well up in the child's eyes, and he clings to the young Prince who looks momentarily confused. Merlin however understands and reacts at once, reaching out a hand – an offering. The boy – sniffling, obviously trying not to cry – hesitates just barely before accepting it. The warlock's throat tightens and a sharp pain cuts through his chest at the sight of the little boy, so sad and lonely.

"Shh, shh, it's all right," he murmurs soothingly. He opens his arms. The boy stumbles into them, still struggling with the tears and doesn't relax fully, but Merlin does not expect him to and tries to not be too clingy himself. He doesn't want to scare the boy away now.

James, worriedly chewing his bottom lip, stares at the other boy intensely and then wraps his arms around him too, tight and comforting even if he doesn't quite understand  _why_  his friend crying, maybe his mother can explain if Colin can't or won't.

And this is how Uther finds them: two boys and an adult man on the floor wrapped in a tight embrace with tears on their cheeks.

 

* * *

"Who do you think he is?" King Arthur asks softly so only his husband can hear, as the two observe the child out of the corner of the eye sitting by the table, eating like he's never had a proper meal before in his life. Which is stuffing his face with anything edible. Uther has to bite back a remark about  _manners_. James is sitting next to the boy talking amiably and gesturing wildly with his hands, bubbling with excitement.

"I don't know," Merlin answers. His eyes are fixed on the child, and he can't really stand still, wholly unsettled. "He must be an orphan … poor thing."

"Merlin …"

"What?"

"I've seen that look on your face before. No, we  _can't_." But something lurches in Arthur's chest as he says this, but he ignores the feelings. They can't – they have too many duties, too little time, they're … they're too busy with their own children besides managing the Kingdom. Surely, Merlin will realize this!

"Why  _not_?" Merlin retorts sharply. "The boy obviously has no one to care for him. And James is so taken with him already. Placing the boy at an orphanage and parting them would break James' heart."

Arthur glares at him only half-heartedly; he is clearly torn, his heart and his mind not agreeing with one another right now. For while his heart would follow Merlin anywhere, his mind does not think it would be easy or proper to take an orphan boy from the street and raise the child in the royal household. There'd be protests, surely. But. His husband sounds so…so  _desperate_ and sad, and his son is laughing with the boy, happy like an over-excited puppy and – oh, he wishes for nothing more than happiness for his family!

"Merlin -"

The warlock meets his gaze evenly, holding it while looking like a kicked puppy. Even Uther admits he would have found it difficult to say 'no' to such an intense, innocent, hurt face.

" _Please_ , Arthur."

"Oh, that is so unfair!" the King exclaims exasperatedly. "You know I have no defense against that hurt-puppy-look!"

He tears at his hair. What's he supposed to do? How is he meant to defend himself when all his heart suddenly wants is to shut out all common sense and obey every one of Merlin's words?

"Just  _look_  at them, Arthur."

Both Uther and Arthur turn their heads to look. True, Prince James is now seeking to hold the other boy's hand and young Colin is blushing slightly, and the two look truly smitten and adorable like only four year olds can be _. It's almost like it's meant to be,_  Uther quietly muses and then abruptly freezes. Another peasant boy falling for a Pendragon Prince and vice versa? That sounds  _far_  too uncanny to simply be convenience!

And if it's  _not_  convenience, then it must be…

" _Destiny,"_ purrs a content voice inside his mind.

 _"Get out of my head, silly dragon!"_ Uther mentally growls at the thing and clenches his teeth, trying to focus on refilling the goblets instead, not listen to voices in his head or spill wine over the whole table. Then he'll only gain attention he does not need at this moment and probably be sent to Gaius for a head examination – he shudders with horror at the very thought. No, he cannot let that happen.

"Would it not be cruel to force them apart?" the warlock continues. "James would never forgive us."

It would be cruel indeed, and Uther feels a sudden odd urge to kick Arthur in the shin if he doesn't comply and agree with his husband soon.

"Do you think…?" Arthur edges. "That…you know – that it is fate?"

Merlin smiles. "Maybe it is."

Eventually the King sighs. "Fine. If we do not find any of the boy's family, then we'll take him in."

The royal consort starts grinning like a loon. "Oh, thank you, thank you,  _thank you_!"

"Just so you know, the only reason I'm accepting it is because he's already potty-trained."

"You're just saying that," Merlin teases and Arthur just grumbles something on his breath that sounds to Uther suspiciously like "Who gave that idiot the right to be so adorable?" before loudly announcing he must attend to a council meeting.

Uther follows his son out like a proper servant and isn't surprised the least when Arthur immediately goes to Geoffrey of Monmouth, interrupting the old man in the middle of a sentence as he's writing for his masterpiece ('History of the Kings of Albion') to announce that an official adoption needs to be prepared as-soon-as-possible.

Of course, by now, Geoffrey has had so many years to practice that he hides his reactions perfectly behind a mask of indifference, no matter his surprise and curiosity. There's not even a raised eyebrow, only a simple bow and his voice remains monotone and dry.

"Yes, my lord, I shall see to it immediately."

But as the King and servant (well not really a servant) take their leave from the library, Uther swears he can hear the Genealogist mutter on his breath; "By my beard! Soon enough there'll be a whole garrison of little Pendragons running about, causing mischief … and ruining the quiet order of this beloved castle!"

For some reason Uther does not feel at all surprised to hear that.

 

* * *

Gaius does not hide his reaction so well: instead of a calm nod, his eyebrows raise up near his hairline and eyes go comically wide.

"A child?"

"Yes. He's an orphan," Arthur clarifies in a tone that suggests that the matter should need no clarification since Arthur is the King of Camelot, and thus should not be questioned, at least not when it comes to matters like these, because the King of Camelot is always right.

"Has the boy no family whatsoever?"

"Not that we know of. He speaks very little but Merlin and James has managed to get him to talk. He says his parents went away … that they didn't come back." Arthur's voice thickens, an angry hue colouring his voice as his fists clenching so that the knuckles turn white. How can anybody abandon their child like that?!

"I've ordered the council to try and search for any kind of relatives to the boy, but it's hard since he has no family name and is so small he can't tell where he's from. He's mentioned travels, so we assume he's only come to Camelot recently."

"And if you do  _not_  find any relatives, sire?" Gaius asks carefully.

"Then Merlin and I shall adopt him. I see no reason for it not to work."

"Of course. Have you spoken with the council about it yet?"

A frown comes across Arthur's forehead. "No, and I would prefer not to although I suppose I must. While I'm sure the Knights will be happy, not all of those grumpy old men will be. No offence, Gaius," he adds quickly.

"None taken. Though I would advise you to choose your wording well. There are some people that indeed will not be pleased to hear this."

 

* * *

Three days and a renewed peace treaty later, Queen Annis departs from Camelot along with her grand entourage. She does leave one of her Knights, however, as a liaison between their two Kingdoms – they have one similar in Caerleon already, sir Brennis. In case anything ever happened and they'd need to call for their allies for aid against a common enemy, these ambassadors were of great help. Ever since Arthur came to the throne, he's made sure to have an ambassador from all of his allied kingdoms, and he's sent out men to each of theirs.

At the moment, all seems to be at peace, even with the unsettling news about evil stirring out there, and of Vortigen forming alliances. Still, it never hurts to be ready.

Uther has been through this kind of thing in the past, though, and he knows it's a matter of time, not a possibility of  _if_ , until there'll be a battle to be fought. Whether it will be a small skirmish, easily settled, or a full-scale war, only time can tell.

At the moment Arthur is preoccupied by other battles. Namely, trying to find out who the orphan boy they've found really is, and what is to become of him.

 

* * *

A week passes, and then a fortnight; and no parents to the orphan boy have yet been found. He's seen every day with the Royal family and occasionally with one of the Knights, sir Percival, who seems to have taken an especially soft spot for the boy, and it doesn't take long before he is considered a normal occurrence and people stop remarking at his presence. Indeed, soon enough, if the little boy is not seen with Prince James for some reason, people start asking if anything is amiss, if he has fallen ill perhaps or had to leave.

It turns out the boy possesses the tiniest amounts of magic (not near enough, at the moment, to do any kind of damage). Uther wonders briefly if his parents had shunned him for that – it wouldn't surprise him. And at the thought (as he remembers all the burnings) of the tales he's heard of people abandoning their little ones in the forest, he grows cold, just for a very short while. But still, he knows enough to determine that he, while he still was his true self, caused families to be torn apart by the laws of magic. Perhaps …

Well, Arthur does make a good King. And even with all this magic flying around, there are no fires raging in the nights and (he's researched quite a lot just to make sure) there are no higher rates of criminal activities than before. In fact, they seem to have lowered! And people smile in the streets and the sky even seems clearer. If Arthur can manage such a kingdom, with a Warlock at his side, then – well, maybe,  _maybe_ , all of that magic isn't that bad, after all. Possibly.

Anyway, when the revelation of magic is made – as it were, the boy tried to reach a fruit at a shelf to high when being watched by Gaius. Unable to grasp it due to his height, he'd stretched his small hands and the fruit had, as if pulled by an invisible piece of string, gently floated down to his awaiting palms. Gaius wouldn't have noticed if Uther hadn't been there, grumpily eating that muddy-looking breakfast porridge and seen the boy do it (and promptly shriek for a bit and fall off the chair), which alerted the physician. He immediately told Merlin about it, who adamantly insisted on starting schooling him in the arts of magic immediately.

At the news, Uther is a bit horrified. School the boy? Teach him spells?! And then there's the matter of the Consort being pregnant. Surely he's too tired and otherwise preoccupied to take on any students! But if schooling would help him control it … Anyway, in the end, it matters little what Uther thinks, because Gaius is heartily agreeing with the warlock and the King is quick to agree as well – he even seems happy to find it out! And  _proud_!

Proud, like any good parent ought to be of their child.

And, maybe, a little bit, Uther is slowly finding himself affected by his son's attitude toward this whole matter. The boy is rather sweet, and fits right into the odd family and seems unperturbed by the fact that his soon-to-be fathers are royalty. Even the Knights have begun insisting being called Uncle!

 _Oh, I'm going soft_ ,  _just like the rest of them,_  Uther realizes with a groan, placing a hand on his chest,  _curse this!_   _Soon I'll be taking notes just like Geoffrey, the old git, and writing everything down in a diary and making the dates; especially when something like this occurs. Today, for example! Today, August the fifth of His Lord's year of 607, my dear son just announced that – oh, damnation, I'm already doing it!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _With "Old Mary and John" I refer to Mary and John Howden from episode 4x08 'Lamia'; they are farmers from an outlying village. What I've added is that they come to Camelot for a certain amount of time a year to sell part of their crops at the market (so I don't intend them to be original characters). In this fic Merlin and others know them from the incident with the Lamia (albeit it probably played out differently since this is a Merthur AU) and, sometime in the past, they got to greet little Prince James which is why he knows of them and calls them by that nickname and claims to trusts them._
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> _Sir Brennis appears in s04e10 'A Herald of the New Age', wherein Percival broke his arm when arm-wrestling. In this AU he works as a Camelot liaison/ambassador working in Caerleon, Annis' kingdom._


	8. How to Handle Growing Families and Aggravating Uncles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Never thought I'd get around to it, but finally - here is the next chapter of this fic! Thank you everyone who have read this far! So, this chapter is fluff. And craziness. That is pretty much it. But maybe there is a hint of plot in there too! Possibly..._

“My lords and ladies, I, King Arthur, have an important announcement to make. We shall soon have yet another addition to the Pendragon family.”

Applauds thunders and sir Gwaine stands up on his chair, grinning like a loon and shouts: “Whoa! You’re getting too good at it, Princess!” only to be pulled down by his fellow knights who attempts to silence him, their faces scarlet. Both Merlin and Arthur (though their ears go slightly red as well) are in such a good mood, that they care not to admonish the knight for it right now.

Uther however mentally writes a note, reminding him to have a serious word with that knight later. Honestly, implying such things in front of the whole council and the royal couple themselves! How disgraceful!

“I am happy to say we are to adopt an orphan boy, Colin, who is three years old.” The council nods; most of them have seen the dark-haired child around the castle during the last few days, since the boy has practically been living with the royal family since last Thursday, and been especially attached to the young Prince, following him wherever he goes. “The ceremony shall take place in four days.”

“Sire, surely you cannot be serious! Haven’t enough peasants invaded the royal court?”

Abrupt silence falls over the hall. Half of the members of the Round Table scowl at Lord Agravaine’s loud remark.

“Way to ruin the mood,” mutters sir Gwaine.

“No peasants have _invaded_ our court,” King Arthur says coldly.

“But what about –”

“Lord Agravaine,” Merlin cuts in calmly before the man with the slicked back hair can continue, and Uther is astounded at the air of certainty, control and huge but collected _power_ emitting from the former servant. His tone holds the confidence and serenity like that of a King. “I believe silence would now be advisable.”

The man nods stiffly, exhaling slowly through his teeth. “Yes, sire.”

* * *

And so it comes to pass that Camelot gains another Prince. The whole city rejoices, but Uther feels … torn. Torn between happiness for his son and grandson Prince James, who both are very happy with this turn of events – and between anger and a brief flash of disappointment. Because, an adoption in all its glory; well, he might be all right with that - but, a peasant boy getting turned into a  _Prince,_  just like that?

No, it just isn't done!

Peasant Knights, peasant Princes and peasant Warlocks wearing crowns … Everything he has ever known has been turned upside down! The court of Camelot has truly changed from how Uther remembers it and he is trapped in an inner conflict with himself. Should he shun or embrace the new? Should he try crushing these turn of events, show resilience, or should he simply… _let it be_? What are the options? How should he  _react_?

 _How_ _can_ he possibly react?

It's not like he can order the guards to arrest someone and have them burned at the stake, those laws don't apply anymore and he's believed to be a  _servant_  with no wit and no brains to speak of.

So. What should he do?

* * *

" _Watch and learn, and do not interfere too early. This may damage more than it would aid."_

Why, oh why, must it always invade to talk in his head? Has a man no privacy anymore, not a single moment of peace and quiet so that he can rest?

 _“No rest for the living,”_ the lizard quips, far too brightly. _“You may rest when you’re dead.”_

" _Shut up, stupid dragon, I didn't ask for your opinion!"_

Besides, technically and with all right, he _is_ dead. Therefore he should be able to rest and not have to worry or be stressed or freaked out or anything of the sort – not be forced to be in this state, sweat pouring from his brow as he rushes from place to place having to sort out various duties brought upon him. Not to mention all the troubles as of late with Arthur and Agravaine’s mutterings and the new additions to the Royal House. Frankly, Uther is in quite a state and in need of a holiday.

Is this Fate’s cruel way of giving him one, by plucking him down from Up Above and forcing him to live another life? As if a servant’s life could ever be some holiday!

With a sigh, he wipes his forehead, grimacing with disgust. Last time he felt this bad he’d been twenty-two and still a Prince, training with his Knights in the field. But that sort of grime was another, and he was a lot more carefree back then. And, a quiet voice (that he cannot determine if it is his own or some illusion planted there) whispers: _When you were young, Uther Pendragon, there was magic flowing through the land as it is now, even if it was nowhere as bright and powerful as today._

Never mind that now – the dragon is talking again in that very serious voice that it likes to use when it talks in riddles.

" _Pay heed to this warning, Uther Pendragon: Dark times are a-coming, and the Evil Duo is fast approaching. There is a traitor in our midst, aiding them, and of this you must make the Two Sides of the Coin aware. The Die is cast…You have the chance to change fate with this knowledge."_

" _An Evil Duo? Are they magic? And what bloody_ ** _coin_** _?!"_

There's a moment of silent disbelief. Then:

" _You honestly cannot be_ ** _that_** _dense."_

Uther really has never gotten on well with dragons. It might just be talking gibberish to annoy him, so he'd better just ignore it for now.

_“Though then again, Arthur must’ve inherited his obliviousness from somewhere…”_

_“BE SILENT, STUPID LIZARD!”_

(He may or may not have yelled that last part aloud.)

Anyhow, he cannot dwell on it, because that annoying cook – what's her name; Anne? Audrey? whatever – is calling for him again demanding that he chop vegetables for the feast to celebrate the adoption of the newest Prince. Which is all really, really unfair. He'd rather muck out the stables than chop vegetables!

… On seconds thoughts, no. The stink of horse manure is utterly _dreadful_ while he can wield the knife against the vegetables like a sword; yes, he can imagine it is Tristan Dubois' head he's chopping off – that'll make him feel a bit better.

* * *

_Oh curse these stupid turnips, may they forever boil in vats of hot oil and unforgiving spices and then get squashed into jelly by giant trolls sitting on them –_

Someone taps at his shoulder.

"WHAT NOW?! DON'T YOU SEE I'M WORKING HERE! I'M TRYING TO  _CONCENTRATE_!"

Uther stills the knife momentarily against the chopping board to glare at the messenger, and then proceeds to drop the knife as it isn't some faceless page-boy running up and down the corridors but no, it's an owl.

A dark specked owl carrying some kind of letter attached to its leg.

"What the – WHAT IS THIS?!"

One of the kitchen maids looks terribly amused for some reason. "Oh, that's just the latest messaging system," she explains in a completely neutral tone as if it's a normal occurrence to have a rather large bird invading the kitchen, a bird which is now trying to pick apart Uther's ear in impatience. "The falcons only work for long-distance messages, to other kingdoms and such. Before they used doves but they just kept making such a mess everywhere; owls are much more proper and easier to tame. I think the druids can communicate with them somehow, you know, telepathy and all that, but it might just be rumours. It was Lord Merlin's idea! It's brilliant, isn't it?"

"No, no, it is not  _brilliant_!" Uther protests and waves his arms trying to get rid of the thing. "Absurd is what it is! Using birds when one could just send an errand boy running down the corridor! This is all _but_ brilliant! The stupid bird's trying to eat me and that is  _not_   _brilliant_! GET OFF ME OR I WILL STAB YOU WITHOUT HESITATION, YOU STUPID BIRD!" He reaches for the knife lying on the table. "I AM ARMED!"

The owl, now slightly ruffled, looks terribly affronted as if it could understand him (which is a ridiculous thought), but stops picking at his ear and sticks out its right leg, the one with a parchment attached to it.

"Oh, calm down and take the message, George," the cook says as she decides to appear that moment, armed with an enormous wooden ladle that might possible be more dangerous than the knife resting in Uther’s hand, given the rumour concerning her ability to wield it, which has been witnessed by many servants and nobles alike over the years. "I will not have any more of this ruckus in my kitchen!"

Reluctantly Uther takes the message and unrolls it. It's very simple and straightforward and written in a surprisingly neat hand:

 _George, the King and his Royal Consort require your presence ASAP in the Nursery. We have a situation.  
/Merlin and _ _(added in a swift messy scrawl)_ _HRH_ _Arthur_

The hefty woman, having glimpsed or perhaps understood the message anyway through some hidden magical talents _– oh my god please no, don’t let it be!_  – swings the ladle in his direction in a quite petrifying manner.

"Don't think for a  _moment,_ young man, that you'll be let off vegetable chopping duty, may King Arthur himself be calling for you or not! You _will_ be back and finish that!"

Uther flees the kitchen. Er, not flees. He walks away from them very swiftly in an entirely dignified and not at all cowardly manner. Besides, there's a Situation. A Situation could be dangerous, it could even be lethal, and he'd rather die as a hero by saving his son’s family from assassination or something like that, than get killed by the cook wielding a giant wooden spoon.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the nursery wing of the castle, one boy is eagerly jumping up and down while another is struggling to let go of the warlock's robes.

"It's going to be fine. You don't have to say anything, all right, if you don't want to."

"…O-okay."

The boy clings desperately to his hand and the warlock smiles gently. "James can sit right next to you all the time if you'd like. And I'll be on the other side. Would that be good, Colin?"

The boy nods firmly but there are still traces of uncertainty in his eyes.

"If anything's wrong you can tell me or Arthur at once. All right? Good." Merlin brushes off some non-existent dirt from the boy's miniature jacket, perfectly red with a golden dragon upon it, and looks over him a final time. The shoes are laced … his hands are clean. Good, good. Wait … Oh no – where's his circlet?!

Merlin turns to his son, who has this suspicious look about him right now, an eerie shadow of Arthur when the prat is up to no good. "Sweetie, have you seen Colin's circlet?"

The blonde boy looks around entirely innocent. "No, Ma."

" _James_ ," he says warningly.

Colin is now worrying his bottom lip, clearly nervous about the upcoming ceremony and now also about missing circlets and royal insignias.

Seeing this, Prince James do not hesitate to pull off the glimmering golden item from his own head and step to him: "Here, you can borrow mine instead!"

Merlin can't help but smile as the boy lays his circlet upon his soon-to-be foster-brother's head. It's too big for him and slips down over his eyes awkwardly, but James has never before looked so proud and happy (not even when he’d received his very own wooden sword on his last anniversary).

"But then what are you going to wear, love? No, we must find that circlet."

"I want him to wear mine!"

"It's important to be gentlemanly. Have you  _asked_  Colin if it's all right that he wears yours and not his?"

At his parent's request the Prince turns to the other boy and promptly asks: "Will you have my crown?"

"Yes, yes please," is the answer as the dark-haired boy shyly stares at the Prince through his eyelashes. "Thank you."

"There, that was gentil … gen-man ... man-thingy," James states proudly and his parent chuckles warmly.

"Indeed it was."

That moment, the door to the chamber creaks slightly as King Arthur peers inside, carrying a finely woven basket lined with red and golden blankets in a safe grip: the little Princess is snoozing safely within. "Are we ready to begin?" he asks.

He sounds decidedly anxious, like a very apprehensive parent. The warlock comes to his feet and takes the basket from his hands, kissing his cheek. "Well…we need another circlet. For James. He offered his to Colin."

They exchange a warm, knowing look.

"We should have some spares in the vaults. We'd better send for a servant right away," Arthur says and on cue (it might have to do with the fact that a lot of practical enchantments like Calling Spells have been cast all-over the kingdom) a dark brown owl with white speckles appears, circling over their heads before landing on Merlin's shoulder with a content chirp.

The warlock finds some parchment, writes some words on it and attaches it to the owl's leg. "Go find George, Archie," he instructs the bird - he can tell them all apart (Arthur couldn't to save his life) and has had every messenger named - and the owl is off with another chirrup.

"George?" Arthur asks, though, curious. "Why not Gilli or someone else?"

"He's reliable," his husband says, "plus he is Richard's stand-in since he is still ill; it's the natural choice. I heard from Gaius he's getting better, though. I hope he gets well soon. I've already asked Gaius about a magic cure but apparently this is just something that needs to be ridden out...but Richard will be fine, don't worry, Arthur - you won't need to seek a permanent replacement!"

At that the King exhales in relief. His regular manservant has been sick for over a month now, and for all his quirks (both good and bad) George is just so inexpliquably _odd_ sometimes, and has these outbursts ... He'll never forget that time he yelled down a councilor for wearing oddly matching shoes to a meeting. That was apparently some very, very bad offence according to an ancient lawbook that Arthur fell asleep when he tried reading it that one time.

Yeah, George is odd.

* * *

Not five minutes later a ruffled figure crashes into the room, almost tugging the door off its hinges with his momentum.

"I'M HERE! I SHALL VANQUISH WHATEVER HORRORS THAT HAVE OCCURRED! I AM ARMED!"

"That was fast," remarks Arthur, impressed and adds turning to Merlin: "You know, that messaging system isn't so bad after all."

"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON - I mean, good day, sires," George says and bows, breathing harshly, his face red and his breaths coming in fast puffs. In his right hand he’s clenching a … a _fork_? Yes, it’s a fork, an ordinary simple wooden fork probably taken from the Royal Cook’s favourite collection and he’s holding it in front of himself like a warrior would his sword, ready to attack.

"There was a … situation, my lords?" A look of horror comes across the servant's face, making it white as snow and George leans against the nearest chair, desperately trying to catch his breath. "Is it assassins? Attacking monsters? Evil sorcerers? TELL ME, I DEMAND IT AND I SHALL ERADICATE THE THREAT THIS INSTANT!"

"No, whatever gave you that idea?" Merlin says lightly.

The servant silently  _stares_.

The warlock clears his throat feeling slightly awkward. "We need you to go down to the vaults and find a circlet or small crown for James, since his appears to be lost."

" _Prince_  James," corrects the blonde King.

"… Couldn't you … Well,  _conjure_  one – err, sire? You do possess … m-m- _magic_ , " asks the servant quite hesitantly; though why George seems to start trembling, his knuckles pale and his face strained, when he mentions ‘magic’ both Merlin and Arthur have no idea. Enchantments have been planted all over the Kingdom and strengthened it for years and helped people, so there’s no obvious reason for George to fear it.

"It'd take quite a complex spell to create one from thin air, and using magic when I'm pregnant wears me out."

At once Arthur's face darkens with worry and he rushes up to his husband, laying a supporting hand on his back.

"But you used that fire spell to light those candles earlier this morning to show Colin how to!" he exclaims heatedly. "You shouldn't have done that! Are you feeling all right? You're not in pain or feeling faint or—"

"I'm  _fine_ , Arthur," the warlock assures. "That was more a trick than actual magic, really. On the other hand making a solid golden crown out of thin air will take some energy and I'd rather not risk it right before the ceremony. Truly, I'm fine," he adds, again, reaching out trying to soothe his very worried husband. Arthur doesn't look fully convinced. "I promise that neither I nor the child was hurt in any manner."

"I'm going to keep a close on you and Gaius must be nearby either way," the blonde murmurs near the warlock's ear (as if he isn’t keeping a close eye already). "I don't want to take any risks."

George clears his throat. He didn’t run all the way from the kitchens just for fun! “So … the vaults,” he says, and clears his throat again for extra measure. “I shall need to borrow a key, sire.”

“Oh no, you don’t need that, the vaults only opens to those that are allowed there. And for now you are. The doors are magic, you see. Well, off you go!”

“Er ... magic. Yes, naturally, of course, why do I even ask?” The servant nods to himself at this very obvious answer. “I shall be right back then, sires.” George bows his head and is off but not without glancing hesitatingly over his shoulder a couple of times.

Arthur stares after the servant, a brooding look face. There’s just something about George, this oddness that he can’t quite pinpoint …

Oh well. The King shrugs. Right now it isn’t important; he can ponder it later.

* * *

For some reason while it should have taken at least half an hour at best speed to run down to the vaults Uther finds himself there very quickly, in like, two minutes maximum. Magic again…? He can’t help but feel a bit uneasy. Even more so when the doors open for him and the guards do not even blink at his presence; the only thing reacting when he enters the dusty dark cellar is one of the old armors which Uther is sure is empty – it keeps turning his head like looking at him…which is decidedly creepy. And _definitely_ magic.

“Now where do they keep all the old crowns?” he wonders aloud. It appears the vaults have been redecorated since he was king.

“Turn left, twenty paces down the west wing, shelf D,” the empty magic armour reports in a rusty monotone voice, causing Uther to jump.

“… uhmm.”

“Have a good day,” the empty magic armour finishes in the same straightforward tone.

After staring at the thing for a moment, Uther realizes that a thanks may be in order; magic or not, the armour _did_ just give him directions and ignoring it would be very rude. Being rude is not good, at least not to magic things – the armour has a real and deadly sword in its belt after all. It might decide to hack him down or jinx him if he does not thank it properly.

“Er. Yes. Thank you, sir Armour.”

* * *

"I could take Elaine," the King offers. "Or one of the nurses could."

But Merlin shakes his head slightly. "I want to have her near. You need to walk in first as King of Camelot and father-to-be of Colin. The children and I will come right after."

The King gives in, and some more exchanges of sweet words and kisses ensue and Merlin takes a moment to check that Arthur's crown isn't slipping down past his eyes and that his cloak is without mark. The whole company is dressed accordingly in royal colours and with golden and/or silver circlets upon their heads lined with rubies and diamonds and other nicely shiny things. All in all they present a perfectly royal picture, and they’re radiating with love and joy, the royal couple holding hands; Uther swells with sudden pride for his son who’s grown up so much.

When looking upon them Uther has this unexpected urge to wipe his eyes, which for some bizarre reason have become wet.

"Now James, I want you to keep a close eye on your daddy and siblings," King Arthur tells his eldest son firmly and the boy nods very seriously.

"I will, Papa!"

Merlin merely rolls his eyes. “It’s _you_ who’ll need an eye kept upon you,” he mutters to his husband and a grin tugs briefly at Arthur’s lips.

* * *

The guests begin to fill the Hall. There are of course the Knights of the Round Table, the council and a few visiting lords and ladies; also some commoners and servants. Gaius is naturally seated by the royal table to keep an eye on his grandchildren (well, they're not  _exactly_  his grandchildren by blood, but he's a part of the Pendragon family and it doesn't really matter how) along with some elderly woman that Uther finds only vaguely familiar.

Lord Agravaine's face is dark and he's wearing all black as per usual (his colour scheme sticking out like a sore thumb among the other guests', who all wear bright red and golden and blue), and his hair is sharply slicked back. He probably he supposes he looks cool and intimidating, but Uther has always had a private opinion of the man looking like and acting like a pig in a nobleman's clothing. He's smiling that cold little smile, which could almost be called a sneer but just almost, for the expression is controlled, if strained at the edges, and only shows an inch of the despise the man must be feeling at the moment.

The Lord had complained for three days in a row about the adoption and fear had grown among the court that he’d drag the rest of the council with him; and if the whole council had refused such an action it'd been dangerous to adopt without their support.

But the people support the act wholeheartedly and then there's sir Percival (with the massive biceps) who had threatened to have a "talk with Lord Agravaine in a quiet alleyway" (which implied that little talking would take place; more like the knight would crush the councilor like a bug) if the man dares to do  _anything_  to stop the adoption or hurt to royal family in any way. Which was quite an effective method to keep Agravaine quiet, by the way.

While Uther personally also has his doubts about the whole affair – the boy  _is_  a peasant, after all - he also takes grave insult, especially when Agravaine speaks of  _'the beggar child, soiling the Pendragon line'_ and adding things like _'_ _enough peasant blood dirtying the royal blood'_ etc. etc. It is one thing to think so - another to speak of it so bluntly in public in words that even the simplest commoner can understand! Nay, that is not how a councilor and lord should act.

In short, Agravaine is very aggravating and has been even more so as of late. This opinion is thankfully shared by King Arthur and Merlin who makes sure the Lord is placed on the other side of the room during the feast following the adoption ceremony. Having him at the head table would've been  _unbearable_.

Uther's eyes narrow as a sudden thought hits him. Could Agravaine be the "traitor" the dragon spoke of?

(Though Uther still wonders about the whole "Evil Duo" thing. And the “Two sides of a Coin”. Which coin? He’ll have to figure that one out later.)

On a scale from one to ten the chances surely are somewhere around eleven, given the dark looks the man sends the royal couple, his scornful attitude and his odd fondness of late night rides into the forest and his love to dark clothes and slicked back hair. So, it's not completely illogical. In fact it is  _very_  logical. Hm, odd that nobody's noticed it before.

Now, how to expose such a thing without getting thrown in the dungeons or sent to the stocks …

* * *

The ceremony goes smoothly and without incident, though there was a bit of a fuss in the beginning when Arthur demanded pillows to be fetched for his consort to sit upon (ensuing a small argument wherein eyes were rolled, remarks were ignored and pouts were used as weapons). There's music and speeches and lots of hugs. Arthur looks insanely proud and the warlock by his side positively glows, and Prince James can barely contain his excitement, jumping up and down in his chair.

Meanwhile, Princess Elaine sleeps peacefully through the whole thing, waking only near the end to demand hugs from all her favourite Uncles, Aunts and Grandparents who are present. Prince James refuses to let go the hand of the newest addition to the Pendragon family throughout the ceremony. No one raises an eyebrow, which is odd, but then again so many odd things happen around here now that Uther doesn't find the energy to remark on it. (If he kept rising eyebrows at everything they’d never be the same again.)

If only the servants would stop giggling though... And the guards, with their “ _awws”_  and “ _so_   _cute_ ”, not to mention how the  _knights_  behave …!

Actually, it’s best not to mention them.

When Arthur's leaning over to kiss his husband and lays a hand on the round belly, a course of excited “ _Oohs”_  sweep through the room.

… Is Geoffrey taking notes again?!

Uther reaches for the nearest tray, which is carried by some other servant, who frowns at him when he carelessly grabs a filled wine-glass. He seriously needs something strong to drink if he is to last through the night.


	9. How to Handle Old (who may not remember you as such) Friends and New (or old depending on your point of view) Bunkmates

The following morning is bright and early and Gaius announces, when putting the grey mushy stuff that’s supposed to be porridge on the table, that George can no longer reside with him here. It takes a moment for it to click in Uther’s morning-drunk (and slightly hangover) brain.

“Why ever not?!” Uther exclaims, standing up. “You can hardly just throw me out!”

“Alice and I would prefer some privacy once we’ve wedded.”

Air poofs out of Uther’s lungs like someone heavy-footed carrying a full sack of grain just have landed on them. White and wide-eyed, he stands for a moment, staring at his old friend, unable to make any sense of the situation.

Once sound manages to return to his tongue, he opens his mouth:

“Y-you – _Alice?!_ – WHAT?! But, but, but you’re, you’re …”

The old man raises a terrifying eyebrow at him, patiently awaiting an answer and Uther gapes like a fish out of water, and makes wide gestures with his hands and arms as to emphasis the words.

“You’re _old_!”

“Yes,” Gaius says slowly, as if the listener would have difficulties understanding (he may also be a bit affronted); “but I have been engaged with Alice for some time now. However we could not marry during the Purge, given her magical talents. She has only just returned from a long journey as well.”

That however isn’t really Uther’s point. Even if he is slightly rattled hear his old trusted friend Gaius is now going to marry some woman with magic that Uther hasn’t even been properly introduced to. Isn’t it bad enough Arthur has gotten himself a magical consort?

He and the physician have a tight-knitted past. They have been friends through many things, and he has often spilled his worries and joys to the other man. To hear this is like a blow to the stomach; nay, not a blow – a sword-cut, a crossbow bolt, a spear thrown by the strongest of men. Uther is absolutely devastated and horrified and shocked and a number of other things, which he does not care to mention. His best and oldest friend, not relying this to him earlier!

His limit has been breached. “WHY DID YOU NEVER TELL ME ABOUT THIS LADY FRIEND OF YOURS WHEN I HAVE SHARED ALL MY SECRETS WITH YOU?!”

Gaius gives him an odd look. “I was not aware I had to report everything regarding my private life to you, George.”

Oh.

Oh right. He’s George, not Uther, at least on the outside. Sometimes he … he forgets.

(Not on purpose, of course.)

“I mean…” Uther clears his throat, lowering his voice to a more casual tone but his insides still burn with lingering shock. Marriage! _Gaius_! “I have been living under this roof a while now. Naturally I assumed that you would warn me of such a thing beforehand.”

The old man glares at him and hold up his hand; upon one of the wrinkled fingers is a simple silver band. It’s obviously been sitting there for a while.

“… Oh. I see …”

This is awkward, terribly much so, and the former King suppresses a groan. What to do, now when he cannot order someone to be arrested and beheaded for his distraction?

“I. I assume I’d better. Attend to some important business,” Uther says jerkily and edges toward the door.

The old man’s gaze still pins him down like a thousand needles, making his movements slow and painful. “I assume you must, George.”

* * *

He’s just changed to a nightshirt and gotten into bed, about to get settled in for the night after yet another long tiring day full of the chopping of vegetables, when a call echoes in his head. Uther heaves a weary sigh, rubbing at his temples as if that would shut out the annoying voice.

_“Oi! Hey you, old geezer! Uther!”_

Silently he chants, albeit with little hope: “Go away, go away, go away, go away, _please_ …”

No such luck.

_“Hell-oo? Answer me!”_

_“… Oh, what **now**?”_

_“Come to our meeting place. There’s something important I need to tell you,”_ the dragon says sounding quite impatient.

_“Can’t it wait? I’m in dire need of a good night’s rest-“_

_“No, it cannot wait! It concerns_ Destiny _.”_

That doesn’t sound good at all.

* * *

By the time Uther reaches the clearing it’s pitch black outside and he’s forgot to bring a torch again so he peers into the woods for a moment hoping to catch sight of anything vaguely white, but there’s no sound or movement whatsoever. Surely the stupid dragon can’t have forgotten to meet him?!

After all of the sneaking past the guards – they’ve gotten better and more effective than before, which is good and well (except in cases like these when he needs to get outside unseen without rousing suspicion) - Uther refuses to believe it all to have been for nothing.

“Hey – dragon!” he yells into the night. “You wished to see me. There was something important you wanted to say. COME OUT AND SAY IT!”

“Shh, shh, keep your voice down!”

The sudden movement on his left nearly causes Uther to fall off the horse which he’s sitting on. The animal, spooked by the suddenness, snorts and stomps, and whines nervously. It probably wants to go back to Camelot and sleep just as much as Uther wants to.

Aithusa lands softly on the mossy ground. Well, softly for a dragon anyway. (Then again he’s not that big. For a dragon, that is; even if he’s twice the size of a horse.) “We’re meeting in secret, remember? If you keep yelling like that everyone’ll know and everything will be ruined. It’s vital that do not find out until the moment is right.”

Uther doesn’t really care that much except Aithusa is a dragon and thus can probably roast him alive if he lets that happen. Plus if he fulfills his ‘destiny’ the right way, i.e. doing as he’s told, he might get out of this crazy place soon once and for all. So even if he wants to scream and stomp and tear at his hair, or attack the dragon with a sword or something equally pointy, he can’t do that. “Whatever. Now tell me so I can go back to Camelot and sleep.”

“Cranky much huh? Yeah, the important thing. I had a vision. Well, not really a very accurate vision. It’s just _rather_ reliable. I’m not really a seer, but I’m a dragon, and we dragons we’re pretty special … Anyway, fortunately for us, that vision included you stopping certain events and aiding others.”

Now Uther feels rather curious. Surely that must be his ‘destiny’! And then, once he’s done with that, he can move on!

“Stop being so bloody vague and get out with it!”

“Right, the bottom line is, there’s a traitor at King Arthur’s court. If he’s exposed in time, disaster can be avoided. If he is not, then war is surely upon us, and Uncle Kilgarrah will be most displeased.”

“Oh, you mean Agravaine,” Uther states sounding bored and yawns wide. “What else is new?”

The dragon blinks in surprise and Uther allows himself a smug smirk for have outwitted a dragon like that. “You figured that out how?”

“Not very difficult. He’s at the council still whining like a child and insulting everyone like he did twenty years ago when I had him banned -”

“Twenty- _six_ years ago, actually. You were dead for a while, if you remember.”

The former King glares at the creature. “- Don’t interrupt me, stupid dragon! Let me finish. Agravaine has the obvious traitor look about him. Slicked back hair, dark long cloak, general sneakiness and a partiality to nightly rides outside Camelot. I’ve seen him leave the city at least twice this week. He thinks he’s quite subtle, but then he shows his dislike to everyone in general all the time so people don’t pay him much heed, just telling him to be quiet. That way no one notices – except me, because of my amazing spying skills and sharp eyes – _ahem_ , when he sneaks out of Camelot on some shady business. So obviously it must be him.”

“Oh – oh, you worked it out! All on your _own_!”

Uther glowers at the wide-eyed creature, that sounds inexplicably taken aback and … _proud_? “There’s no need to sound to surprised.”

“You’ve saved us some three weeks of work there at least,” the dragon says cheerfully. “I thought you were as oblivious as Arthur would need that long to figure it out, if not longer, so I kind of planned it and settled the deadline later that I would otherwise. But now you don’t – wonderful!” Aithusa’s tail curls slightly. “So, the traitor is obviously a threat. But we have an advantage: _he_ doesn’t know that _we_ know.”

“He must be stopped. He can’t be permitted to sit in the council any longer! He’s _seriously_ getting on my nerves.”

“Of course we can’t allow that. But he is Arthur’s uncle and a lord, so he has some power, we can’t just red rid him like that even if we’d like to. Anyway, I’ve got a plan: listen closely now …”

Uther sighs. There’s no getting out of this one. So he slides off the horse he’d borrowed from the royal stables and makes himself comfortable on the grass, regretting not bringing a cloak or blanket to wrap himself in, for chilly winds have begun to blow from the north. Reluctantly, he turns to the dragon to listen.

* * *

Not many days later, two men and two healers are gathered in the physician’s chambers. Alice is preparing some salve for Merlin’s swollen ankles as said warlock is seated on the bed, his husband beside him and Gaius sitting on a pallet in front of the pair. The eagerness on the King’s face cannot be denied, and Merlin’s face too is bright, his joy seemingly lighting up the whole room.

“Are you certain?” Arthur asks apprehensively.

“Yes, I’m _very_ certain: it is at least twins.”

“At _least_?” Merlin says, turning his head to look at his guardian wide-eyed. “There may be more?”

Arthur looks extremely thrilled at the prospect.

Gaius nods. “You are growing very quickly, faster than during any of your earlier pregnancies. It is the only conclusion I can make.”

“Yes,” agrees Alice as she comes up to them, offering Merlin the salve which the warlock accepts gratefully. “And all the earlier examinations together with this confirm it. Oh, how excited I am!” The elderly woman smiles and reaches out, pulling the warlock, whom she regards much as her grandchild, into a warm hug. “Congratulations, my dear!”

* * *

The doom from Gaius was clear: his wedding to Alice would take place in a month and so George must pack his things (sparse as they were) and head down to the general servants’ quarters. Uther had considered the tavern first, but realized to his horror he hadn’t the money, and he would also have been forced on an annoyingly long walk up the castle every morning if he took up residence there. So he’d resigned and gone to the Chief of Staff and told him he had nowhere to spend the night.

“You must live in the servants’ quarters from now on,” was the judgment.

Oh, how Uther loathes that dingy, dark, smelly place! Before, as a young Prince, he’d only been there one in his life, when he was younger and ordered to inspect them on his father’s command. A visit he has no desire to repeat.

Reluctantly he makes his way there, deliberately making his steps slow and dragged and pitiful. Maybe someone then will see him and feel sorry for him and he’ll get a free room. Alas! Such a thing does not occur. All that happens is that he is too slow to notice a magic sweeping broom and ends up stumbling over it and stubbing his toe.

Eventually he reaches the servants’ quarters (now with a terribly aching toe), only to find that they aren’t at all the lowly, dirty, stinking place they used to be.

The gray walls have been whitewashed and the whole place cleaned and, oh, it’s so much bigger than before! The furniture is pillowed and luxurious and colourful. There’s a small storage room, and two large bathing chambers adjourning the main room. From those two rooms, warmth and steam are emerging, accompanied by some nice soapy fragrance that Uther never before has thought of as belonging to servants.

The bathing chambers, as it turns out, have been majorly redecorated. One could walk in there and think it belonged to a King! The walls and floors have been tiled in white and blue, gold and red, and there are decorations and plants giving the room a homey feeling, and all the tubs look new. It’s astoundingly fresh and grand.

The main room – where before all servants without a home of their own sleep and eat together - has been divided, and all the beddings he can glimpse through the portable screens are of highest quality. In the center of the room there’s a large mahogany table (with room for at least twenty people) by which several servants are now sitting, eating, and the food isn’t like Gaius’ watery porridge – no, it’s real and proper food. Fine meat and fresh vegetables and fish, warm mead and even _wine_! There’s an open casket sitting on the table, revealing that the wine must be Mercian. The room is filled with warmth and laughter.

Uther stares around, utterly confused.

These … these are the _servants’_ quarters?! But – but – they looks like they could’ve been the rooms of a Duke, a Lord, a Prince – indeed, a _King_! It makes no sense!

“What’s happened here?” he blurts out to the nearest person, a man looking to be near his own age (that is, the age of George’s body, not Uther’s real age).

The man’s clothes are clean and fine, and his hair a messy red colour. His face lights up at seeing Uther, err, George, a smile working onto his face. He looks a bit pale though, a bit sickly, and someone behind him is berating him for being up and out of bed. Instinctively Uther takes a step back – he doesn’t want to come down with some horrible illness himself!

Why does Uther have this gut feeling that he’s seen this servant someplace else before, even if he cannot recall it clearly?

“Oh, Lord Merlin told us to redecorate however we liked it, and with his magic he helped building the extra rooms,” the servant says, voice slightly raspy. “I remember before, when I first came here, how utterly dreadful it was. No warm beds; it took forever to get to the nearest well … Now we even have our own kitchen and bathrooms, and a magic water delivery system just like they’ve started building in the whole city! Lord Merlin is really an amazing person; the whole Kingdom is renewed. The King really needs a companion like that.”

A sudden frown comes to the man’s brow. “Wait, how come you haven’t noticed it before now, George? You used to _live here_. Then you suddenly disappeared all of a sudden! I thought you didn’t want to catch ill, that’s all, but you wouldn’t even send word … We’re, we're bunkmates, remember? You know that right? You haven’t hit your head so bad you’ve forgotten … right?”

Servant’s voice dies out in uncertainty and worry and he’s staring at George in earnest, with wide eyes much like a lost puppy.

Even more bewildered Uther glances at the man. “We … we were?”

“Oh yes! For _years_!”

The servant stares at him befuddled, probably wondering why George seems to have forgotten everything from before the last few weeks. Or maybe not, because seemingly everyone appears to know that George often hits his head during ‘accidents’. The thought itself makes Uther feel embarrassed. Ai! The misery that he should be trapped in this stupid body!

“Well, I must admit you were quite annoying sometimes,” the servant continues, the frown melting into a curious expression of nostalgia. “Always kept joking about brass, and you’d start reciting the best methods to polish swords or scrub floors at midnight when everyone else tried to sleep ... Took me awhile to get used to. But you sort of grew on me, and it’s been terribly quiet without you. I got worried when you wouldn’t return, when you changed like that and wouldn’t even visit.”

Uther glances at him suspiciously. “And who are you?”

Hurt flashes across the man’s face, but Uther barely notices, too distracted to do so.

“Y-you don’t remember me!? George? You don’t remember me?”

Slowly Uther shakes his head.

 _“_ Y-you … _don’t remember me?!”_

One of the other servants nearby – a girl with her red hair tied into a knot and a certain similarity to the man - hears the wail and turns to glare at Uther with a fierceness that makes him take a step backward. (And she’s not even armed!) Then she lays an arm around the young man, who looks to be on the brink of tears, lower lip quivering.

“He doesn’t remember me! _At all!_ Oh, why does it hurt so much?!”

“There, there, hush brother dear,” mutters the other soothingly, stroking his arm and glaring all the while at Uther. “It’s all right; just forget about him now, okay? Come on, let’s get you some tea.”

“I can’t help it I’m so sensitive!” wails the servant whom Uther has no clue as to who he is. “He was always there and I like him I really do and then he disappeared and now _he doesn’t remember me!_ What am I going to do?! _”_

In turn, Uther blinks. And blinks again.

_What … what just happened? Why’s he so **hysterical**?_

Unless _…_ unless George and Richard were very close to each other indeed, before Uther landed in the servant’s body. Close in friendly or perhaps (horror of horrors!) close in _other_ ways; either way, any close relationship can be swiftly reduced to hate when it turns out one part has completely forgotten the other.

Oh god. Oh god **no**. That could only mean one thing; once getting over the grief, this Richard will be very, very angry. And every King knows that an angry servant is a dangerous servant. A single thought makes its way through Uther’s head: _Not good._

“ _You_!” the girl cries, jabbing a finger at him dangerously. “Stay away from him. If I see you upsetting Richard again I _will_ gauge your eyes out. With a fork. _Slowly_.”

Uther stares at her. She holds the stare strongly.

“… Excuse me _?”_

How could a servant threaten him in this manner and in the open as well? Has he any idea who she is?! Instinctively he reaches for his belt where a sword should sit, but there’s no weapon there, and he curses on his breath.

“HOW DARE YOU-“ he starts, loudly (gaining a few stares) when, suddenly, he remembers:

 _Right,_ s _he doesn’t know who I am, because she just like everyone else except that dragon thinks I’m George the Servant and not Uther Pendragon, former King of Camelot._

“Oi, calm down,” says an elderly woman sitting by the table. She waves her spoon warningly at them. She turns her face toward Uther, err, George, who still is standing in the doorway feeling lost and utterly, utterly confused, and slightly irritated. “George, you’d better bunk with someone else than Richard. And do stay away from Catherine, please; she has such a short temper, especially when it comes to her brother.“

“Brother?” Uther squeaks. That weakling was that fierce woman’s _brother_?

One angry servant equals a lot pain; but _two_ angry servants equal (a lot of) misery.

… _Oh bugger._


	10. How to Handle Becoming the Errand Boy (and other issues)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, look, an update! It’s been awhile, sorry about that._
> 
> _And now this fic is balancing between very crack and not-quite-crack!-but-rather-serious. I’m not sure what the end result will be, really…Just wait and see, I guess. Also I am thinking more of a plot now and connecting the pieces._
> 
> _OH MY GOD, THERE IS A PLOT._
> 
> _(what have I done??)_

“Well met, Lord Emrys. It has been too long,” Alator greets them by the gates. The druid leader or High Priest or something of some clan or another (Uther hasn’t caught all the details yet) is accompanied by five others, all of them robed in grey and brown. They positively _reek_ of magic.

The warlock smiles and greets them politely but then rolls his eyes, sighing, “Just call me Merlin, Alator, I’ve told you before.”

“Very well, Lord Merlin.” – as this there’s a distinct frown remaining on the warlock’s face (which Uther cannot really comprehend because why _wouldn’t_ he want to be called Lord? Such a thought is simply above his understanding). - “This is my apprentice, Finna.”

Both Merlin and Arthur shake her hand. “Hello! Very nice to meet you. So you’re going to be a Priestess then?” the warlock asks curiously.

“One day, hopefully, I will have the honour,” the woman replies. “Alator has taught me much.”

“Let’s hope it will continue so!” Arthur says and leads them toward the citadel. “Come, we have much to discuss.”

Had this been on his first day here, Uther would have gaped like a fish at seeing his son shake hands with and praise a sorceress, and welcoming a druid into his halls and discuss treaties with them. Now, however, he just stares absently ahead and wonders about dinner (he hopes there’s wine to be had) and worries a bit – not that he’d admit such a thing out loud! – about having to return to the servants’ quarters tonight and face the wrath of two certain servants there.

(He knew he should’ve stuck to the inn, even if the innkeeper would have his head for not affording it.)

* * *

Then, less than a day later, there’s another council meeting urgently called upon. More news of the Vortigen/King Lot-situation has arrived with a messenger falcon sent by King Bayard of Mercia.  Uther’s in the middle of chopping vegetables and nearly cutting off his own fingers when word reaches him.

As he rushes out of the steamy room, the cook’s irritated cries follow him through the corridors all the way to the Council Hall. “Oi!” she shouts, though Uther ignores her and her ladle swishing to and fro dangerously, like a knight’s sword in battle. “No slacking off, no matter how big and important you may be in His Highness’ eyes!”

He reaches the large mahogany doors and pushes them open just in time to find many others have assembled in similar fashion; that is, in a great hurry, their cloaks askew and hair ruffled, and breath short from running. Even a couple of the knights seem winded, albeit that might be because they’re also in full armour clammed with dirt meaning they’ve just come from the training field.

Uther is startled to see the druids from earlier there. No chairs are brought out for them: instead, they magick up five of their own seemingly from thin air. A couple of the Lords nearby flinch in bewilderment, but there are no cries of axes and fires and nooses. They aren’t placed around the Table but near a tall pillar, so they have a clear view of the room and the King and Consort’s seats, though both are as of yet unfilled.

A few other chairs are empty, including that of Lord Agravaine. Ack! Not only is he such a dark-tempered traitor that Uther will never trust, but he’s a _slacker_ too!

Arthur arrives less than a minute after Uther has found his seat (brushing off any surprised glance sent his way). The King stands regal and calm but there’s a definite tension around his eyes and mouth, and Uther doesn’t like it. Merlin isn’t with him, for some reason, and for a brief second there’s a weird surge in the bottom of Uther’s gut, like, like – _worry_!

Yes, worry. And it’s a dark feeling spreading like blood from an open wound. Then he quickly composes himself. Surely, nothing is wrong. The boy is a Royal Consort, with other duties. And he’s carrying Arthur’s baby; he may just be resting, yes, he needs to rest and there’s absolutely nothing wrong and no reason for Uther to feel uneasy for his son-in-law.

The thought hits him then. Son-in-law. He’s really starting to accept the boy as his son-in-law.

… _oh_.

“We have a situation, sire,” one of the women at the Table says. She is dressed in a sort of uniform Uther would associate with a spy in the Royal service. “Vortigern’s army has been spotted crossing the south border. There are all sorts of rumours, but my underlings and I have seen them with our own eyes. They come heavily armed and with machines of war: they aren’t seeking a treaty, catching my drift, sire.”

There are a couple of enraged murmurs but they quickly die down as the King raises a hand sternly.

“What of the messenger sent to King Lot a fortnight ago?” sir Caradoc – Uther recalls him from his own rule; a good, steady man, if a bit impulsive – asks concernedly. “Has any word been returned?”

“Not yet, but we must remain hopeful,” the King replies.

They had done – in a manner of speaking – what sir Gwaine so brazenly had suggested. Well, they hadn’t sent dragons upon Lot first thing, but offered a deal, wherein Lot in order to be spared from such a horrifying attack (nothing short of a Dragonlord could fell two Dragons and only a fool would dare to anger said creatures or any man governing them), he would have to withdraw his support from Vortigen. This would effectively bring him under Camelot’s protection. While they then would be responsible for his kingdom’s well-being, they could use his people on their side if Vortigen truly planned an attack.

“Something must be done! Muster the army!” sir Lamorak cries.

“They have not yet begun an attack. We have had no reports of villages being attacked or farms burned,” young sir Bedivere tunes in rather softly, with much deliberation in his tone. “There is still a chance of a nonviolent end. We should try to negotiate before drawing the sword.”

“Vortigern will never accept any terms. Maybe not even _surrender_! He’ll burn Camelot down to its foundations before then,” insists another; and an argument involving nearly everyone around the Table quickly springs to life. People are shouting to and fro and casting glares and only a few people sit back in silence without drawing heat to their eyes or voice; the High Priest of the Druids, (a bit surprisingly) Lord Agravaine and the King himself, who merely sighs and drags a hand through his rather messy hair.

Uther is another matter. Finally, he’s had it. He musters his most powerful voice. How he wishes he were in his true body! Then his words would have full effect.

“ENOUGH! _SILENCE_!” he roars, slamming a hand down onto the table. And grimaces in pain directly thereafter. _Owww! That hurts! Why did I do that!?_

It’s pretty effective anyway.

“Thank you,” Arthur says, sending him a thankful look. “Bickering like this will lead us nowhere. Sir Leon, what is the situation of our troops?”

The man must have known this question would be asked one day or another in the near future. “At the moment, we’ve got most of our trained Knights in Camelot at your disposal. The only ones indisposed are sir Brinnan and the other ambassadors, sir Bruin because of his broken leg, and sir Aelfric who left the city eight days ago for his estate in the north. He has some two hundred men there we could summon. In total, with all the guards and soldiers in the kingdom: six thousand three hundred thereabouts. We should consider our neighbouring allies,” sir Leon adds, “they will undoubtedly be affected by any war between Camelot and Vortigern.”

“We must send a falcon to Queen Annis!”

“And to Queen Mithian of Nemeth,” sir Kay adds. “Her armies are strong and she is a trustworthy ally.”

Uther startles a bit. _Queen_ Mithian? Last he knew she was just this little girl of twelve! Her father, King Rodor, must have passed away recently. Time sure flies … !

 _“Especially if you’re dead.”_ That blasted dragon pokes the words into his head so suddenly he nearly falls off his chair, and Uther scowls darkly in annoyance. He quickly smooths it over thought before anyone can notice and remark on it, or take offence.

_“Get out!”_

_“Hey, is Agravaine there?”_

_“Yes. But he was awfully late to the meeting. And he is unusually quiet,”_ Uther adds thoughtfully. Otherwise that Lord had an awful lot of things to say, but not today apparently. His silence was of the dark kind, of someone who knew things they wouldn’t tell, and Uther has an instinctive dislike toward such silence, being King and therefore needing to know as much as possible.

No, Agravaine surely is up to no good. He must be questioned – and what better way to press him a bit than now, when everyone is intently staring and listening to each other, desperately seeking advice?

So, as soon as the moment allows, he turns to the man and says promptly, “And what is your opinion of this, Lord Agravaine? Surely you must have some.”

If anything it might rile him up, causing him to slip and therefore reveal him before the Table who he really is! Again Uther curses his ill luck to be in the body of a servant. In a Lord or Knight’s body he might be able to accuse the man with less proof, but now he has nothing but suspicions and the words of a dragon, and in court that will not reach very far, especially as Lord Agravaine now has a fairly powerful position.

But no. The man speaks with a pleasant well-oiled voice, face betraying nothing. “We should proceed with His Highness’ plans.”

He’ll need to come up with something subtle to reveal this man’s true intentions.

* * *

Hours later, the meeting is finally over, after much bickering, deliberation, awkward silence and whatnot. It has been a long, stressful day. His son’s face is unusually ashen and his shoulders heavy, and Uther, understandably, does not like this at all.

“You’d better sit down, Ar- sire. You’re awfully pale.”

“Thank you for your concern, George, but I’m fine,” Arthur says, sighing tiredly and rubbing his temples. “It’s … been a trying day, is all. Could you go to my chambers and check on Merlin? He might be sleeping and don’t wake him if that’s the case. Just, make sure he’s all right. And _don’t_ tell him about how we squabbled during the meeting. He hates it when that happens and calls us all overgrown children.”

“Of course,” Uther nods briefly, but wondering how you check on a person you don’t know and should he barge into the royal chambers or sneak inside and peek or announce himself and should he speak and at all and why does Arthur sound worried? Nothing is wrong, surely? Or perhaps he is just weary. And, right, no mention of the council meeting. And he must remember to knock in case the Consort is sleeping, even at this hour. “Right away.”

* * *

Of course when he gets there Uther totally forgets to knock and walks right into the room unannounced.

There’s a figure slumped on the thick rug before the fireplace. Uther blinks, surprised at seeing it there (and glad he didn’t step in too far and stumble on it!) and it takes a moment to recognize the silhouette in the dim red lights. The warlock is more or less lying on the furs, wrapped in a blanket, staring into the flames of the hearth. The room is very calm and quiet and inviting, considering the cold chaos Uther’s just left behind.

“How’d the meeting go? Don’t tell me you started some argument or another. Was Gwaine there? Probably was late, though.”

The voice is tired but making an effort to not sound so; the chirpiness sounds awfully false. _Is he ill?_ Uther wonders. Maybe he ought to call for Gaius.

He clears his throat. “Are you well?”

Merlin visibly startles, twisting his head around. “Oh! Sorry, George, I thought you were Arthur. He never knocks either.”

Oh. Um. Right. Awkwardly, Uther fumbles for something to say. Arthur had just told him to check on his Consort, but never really specified what to do or say or if he should just turn back round or anything really.

No knocking, must run in the family – can’t say _that_ of course. “Right. My s– Arthur – the King – erm, he sent me,” he explains, biting his tongue on the stumble. “To. Check on you?” he finishes a bit uncertainly.

“Oh, I’m fine,” the warlock responds at once, waving a hand dismissively; more at the question itself that at Uther. It reminds the old man of how Arthur would always tell Gaius that ‘It’s only a scratch!’ whenever he’d been brought to the physician (sometimes carried by force) after getting injured in training or battle, and Uther frowns. He doesn’t like the sound of that.

Then the warlock smiles, warmly and kindly. “Don’t just stand there, George! Come on, take a seat.” Merlin gestures at one of the fur-covered, richly carved chairs pulled near the blazing fireplace.

A question immediately comes to mind. “Why are you lying there instead of sitting on one of the chairs? Surely it cannot be comfortable.” And he’s the Consort now, not some servant anymore – it’s simply not becoming of a member of the Royal Household to be lying on the floor! “Err, sire.”

“Don’t ‘sire’ me, please, I get enough of that every day. Gods, Gwaine still won’t quit with that though all the other knights have understood by now not to call me that – and it’s been _years_ now! – it’s the downside of marrying Arthur, I guess. And, well, lying like this is more comfortable,” Merlin says, shifting a little. “I tried to lie on the bed but it was too soft. And sitting just hurts even more.”

“Oh!” He suddenly remembers what Igraine used to say when she was carrying Arthur, so long, long ago. “Is it your back? Or your ankles?”

“Umm, a bit of both,” the warlock admits. “Gaius gave me this salve but it’s not near effective enough. Ugh, none of the others were this bad! Gaius reckons I’m bigger this time. It’s very annoying.” He scrunches up his nose, the childish action making him look even younger for a moment than his twenty-something years (Uther isn’t sure of his age really and has never asked – maybe he should ask Gaius when opportunity arises?).

“You said Arthur sent you? Did you come from the council meeting? I wanted to go, but was napping when word came and he wouldn’t wake me, the prat!, so he left a note. Then my back started hurting and, well,” Merlin says, sighing and looking away. “I must sound rather pathetic.”

Pathetic? Wherever did he get that idea? Bewildered, Uther tries to come up with something to say, a contradiction, maybe even something comforting, like he would when Igraine spoke in such a tone, so long ago – she’s the only one who would do that in his presence and whom he would have to comfort, except Arthur of course. But the warlock is essentially a stranger, and he doesn’t want to offend him or cause him to use magic on him.

“I’ve seen you in a lot of moods,” he says, thinking about that row with Arthur when greeting Queen Annis. He had made the very ground tremble and the air darken without uttering a _single_ word! “Believe me; that’s very far from pathetic.”

“Thanks.” The warlock chuckles a little, then winces. “Oh! It kicked again.” And he reaches out (perhaps on instinct) and grabs Uther’s hand and guides it to his belly. Uther barely dares to breathe.

“There it goes again. They’re very lively.”

Oh, oh god, that’s his grandchild in there!

His _grandchild!_

_Oh!_

Uther’s eyes are gleaming. “He’s very strong.”

“D’you also think it’s going to be a boy?” Merlin asks, remarking at the pronoun. “Arthur thinks so too. I don’t know … Gaius thinks there might be more than one! Since I’m so round and all now. Oh god, I’m getting all fat!”

Uther’s chest wrenches in rapid panic. _Oh no, no, don’t start crying! Please, I can’t handle it! No crying!_

“No, no, I think you look, um, lovely. Yes,” he says quickly, hoping to stop any eventual angry tears. “Nothing to worry about at all.”

How did he get into this situation again?

Right – Arthur.

“I have seen far worse,” he adds, hoping to soothe the warlock some. He’d seen him angry, after all, and if emotions can spark his magic then he might be in some serious danger right now. Sitting right next to him would mean him taking the brunt of any outburst, physical or magical, and he’d prefer to stay free of both. He’s incredibly tense now and wonders if he should pat Merlin’s back (would it even be welcomed?) or turn tail and flee – err, retreat hastily.

And honestly, he has. Seen worse, that is.

“Really? Gaius says it oughtn’t be too bad. That I should be used to it, it’s my third after all. But d’you think that he’s _ever_ tried to imagine carrying around, I don’t know, a squirming wyvern for nine months? And then it gains several pounds a week and starts kicking your kidneys really painfully … I bet he hasn’t! Well, the first two months aren’t that bad. Relatively. Except the illness and dizziness, and that time I got all sick when that Lord what’s-his-face was visiting when I was carrying James, god, that was so embarrassing; we didn’t even know I was pregnant then! That’s how we found out, you know; Gaius examined me that evening. We realized we’d have an heir by me throwing up all over a visiting dignitary!”

Has he spoken to Arthur of any of this? Or does he complain every night? But, the manner of which the words are spilling from his lips - it’s like he’s been longing for days and weeks to reveal it all.

He seems to balance so carefully between downtrodden and joyful that Uther doesn’t dare mention the council meeting, or how everyone had shouted at each other and the news of Vortigern’s army crossing the borders, or the impending doom. Besides, when he’d left no clear decisions had been made, and Arthur would probably like to tell Merlin in person of if all.

“… were overjoyed of course, though shocked! Arthur just proceeded to grab me and spin me around there in Gaius’ chambers when the news had sunk in. Of course, dancing me around like that, I just threw up all over Arthur too. Gwaine laughed his backside off, of course. Lancelot had to help Arthur out of his fine decorated armour – did I mention that the Lord visiting that night also gifted him with a piece of armour entirely made of gold? I enchanted it so he could wear it without it bearing him down – it weighed a _ton_ before I spelled it – and it held hundreds of lacings and stuff and took forever to get off. And then some poor fellow had to polish it! And Percival carried me to mine and Arthur’s rooms but I couldn’t sleep, how could I just go to sleep when I’d just found out that I’m pregnant?! I was so shocked and happy. You’d have seen Arthur’s face! Before I got sick on him, that is. He was a bit grumpier after that, my poor Arthur. The dignitary was also all levels of furious and left in a hurry forgetting, like, half of his servant and guard (a lot of them were drunk and asleep under the tables at that point) – and I think nobody would ever forget that night. Politics the next month or two were a disaster. ‘Course, it helped when we delegated Leon’s duties so he’d help out there and train less with the knights – that helped Arthur a great deal. Then there was soon time for another feast to celebrate the coming baby, and _that_ was a rather awkward reunion…”

Vaguely Uther becomes aware that he’s not removed his hand from the warlock’s belly yet, so he starts drawing away carefully, which causes the young man to halt in mid-word.

“Oh god, sorry!” Merlin says, pausing to draw breath, “I’m boring you to death and you probably need to get back to Arthur. Just tell him I’m fine. Except Gaius’ salves don’t work and that potion just made me sick. A massage would be nice. Tell him that. What did they decide, anyway? What was the news? He wouldn’t tell me,” he finishes in a slight whine.

“I think the King could answer your questions as soon as the meeting is finished,” Uther says, diplomatically. After all he doesn’t want to be turned into a frog if the news will worry or anger the Consort, and, technically, he hasn’t been given any orders to reveal anything by the King. So. “The meeting went … fine. There were some disagreements at first – whenever are there not? But Arthur has things well under control.”

“He’s getting better at that,” Merlin comments absently. “At first he loathed the council meetings. He’d rather be out hunting or bashing the poor knights. It took a while, I think, for him to realize that, you know, he’s the King, he can’t just delegate the council to somebody else all the time. And for starters not anybody really would listen to me; I’m just a peasant who happens to be married to Arthur.”

Uther frowns for a number of reasons. “He left the council duties to you and went hunting instead?”

The warlock nods vigorously, seemingly unaware of the creases forming on George’s brow. “Yup. It was a good challenge though! Bit boring and _very_ stressful, but I’m better at it too now. But it’s best when we’re both there. He shirked it a couple of times but we – talked,” there’s a slight pause here, “and Arthur admitted he was being an irresponsible prat. King and Prince aren’t the same, you know?”

“Oh yes, I know,” Uther agrees heartily. He had the same issues when he was first crowned. Being a Prince is a heavy duty, but it seems like a fraction in comparison to the duties of a King. “I understand exactly.”

Merlin chuckles, probably not believing the sincerity behind those words (for why would he?). “George, be glad you’re not a King! It’s truly a pain in the arse. There are times I really miss Ealdor, my mother’s cottage … harvesting the crops, baking your own bread, just going unnoticed for a bit - the simple things in life. Being a servant. It’s really odd not to be a servant, even now, after nearly five years – there are mornings I wake up and wonder if I’m dreaming. Did I bash my head in that battle with Morgana? Did she put some spell on me and made me imagine all this…? I can’t quite believe it. But it’s real. It’s real,” he finishes, quietly, voice melding with the slight noises of the sparkling hearth which is slowly dying.

Without raising a hand, just murmuring some ancient words, the warlock gazes at the fireplace with golden eyes and a couple of logs from the pile float over and land in the fire, quickly bursting into flame. Uther tries his best not to shout, flinch or flee.

Even after so many weeks in this new Camelot - open displays of magic are still unnerving.

“Anyway. Arthur probably didn’t send you just to keep me company. Is the meeting still going on?”

“Arthur is having some strategic discussions with several of the knights and Geoffrey,” Uther offers, but adds when seeing Merlin’s face fall; “but they would be short and I am sure he will return soon.”

“He’d better not be late for dinner,” the warlock says. “Last time that happened, he’d been out hunting again and found this boar apparently – it was a success, in a way, but they fell into a river. He, Kay and Gwaine ended up returning covered from tip to toe in mud and, of course, James had to mimic that and it was an utter _nightmare_ to get all that dirt from his hair...! Now I’m rambling again. Could you just tell Arthur to get a move on?”

* * *

“Ah! George, there you are,” one of the kitchen aides exclaims (far too brightly for his current mood) when she sees him. “You’ve missed _two_ shifts now! Was the meeting that long?”

“Yes. And yes.”

He doesn’t mention he might, possibly, _maybe_ have missed his second vegetable-chopping-shift on purpose. He doesn’t want to become that extra ingredient in one of the cook’s stews.

“Well. Now that you’re here, you’d better deliver this to our guests,” she says and pushes a dangerously overfilled tray of food into his hands. It’s just so he manages not to drop it. “It’s for the druid delegation. They’re in the east wing.”

Actually, it’s a wonder he doesn’t drop anything or spills any wine on the white castle floors on the way through the packed hallways and winding stairs. Now a magic sort of delivery system sure would come in handy! (Except, well, it would be _magic_ , and Uther isn’t very sure about the safety of that).

* * *

“George!” a voice haunts him down the hall and he turns to see old Gaius there. He groans. No. Not now! He wants to sleep now. Rest. Eat. Sleep. “George, I need your assistance to gather some herbs in the forest.”

Uther glares at him. “No! I am NOT some errand-boy who –!”

“You lodged with me far longer than I first allowed,” the physician reminds him with a sudden frown, “and you haven’t paid me a shilling for it. Consider this payment.”

“ _Payment_?!” Uther shrieks, before he can stop himself. “For that lice-filled bed and uneatable gruel?! If anything _I_ should be paid for having stood up with it!”

* * *

He ends up in the forest anyway, knee-deep in mud, hands covered in scratches, hunting for herbs he doesn’t know the names of (and cannot really recognize either). Someone up there truly must hate him, he decides, occasionally glaring at the blue sky just in case that someone happens to be looking down and seeing his rage.


End file.
